Offer Me Your Hand
by AnimationGirl
Summary: …and I'll take your whole arm. Grif and Simmons have an argument. And, somehow, things get far worse from there.
1. Sharing is Caring

A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

 **Offer Me Your Hand  
** _Sharing Is Caring_

"This is fucking unfair," Grif complained while staring at the ceiling. He tried to find a comfortable position but ended up slamming his head against the floor – just another reminder that he was in fact lying there instead of in his own bed. That did not improve his mood and he lifted his head slightly to rub the sore spot with his hand.

He eyed Tucker's pillow with a jealous scowl. The Blue was sitting right next to it, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed as he stared down at his friend. "So unfair. You could be staying in Donut's room or Caboose's but here you are, invading my personal space."

"Look, no way am I staying a night with Caboose. I'm not babysitting for free. And if I asked Donut for the favor he'd be turning it into _Donut's Feeling Hour_ where we're supposed to talk about emotions and shit."

"Okay, so there's a big difference about whining to Donut about your shitty love life and whining to me about your shitty love life?"

"Yep," Grif replied and smacked his lips. "First of all, you don't say shit like how I'm not letting you touch me or opening up enough for you go get deep inside." When Tucker grimaced Grif knew he'd made his point. But he still held up two fingers, continuing, "Second, I could be saying Simmons had tried to set me on fucking fire and your advice would still be the same: _get laid_."

Tucker huffed, placing one leg over another. "Are you criticizing my advice now? 'cause you should try it out before rating it."

"That's a bit hard when you're not allowed in your bed in the first place. Or Simmons' bed, for that matter. Fucking asshole." Grif grumbled something under his breath, crossing his arms on top of his stomach.

"Dude, just what did you do to piss him off?" Tucker asked. In order to get a better view of his friend on the floor, he leaned forward, resting his elbows against his knees while his palms held up his head.

Grif scowled, eyes narrowed. "Nothing. Well, nothing unusual. Hey, I don't even think he needs a reason to be pissed. It's probably that hour he spent helping Sarge in the armory yesterday. He's extremely vulnerable to Sarge's propaganda: _oh look, the world is ending for some reason- let's blame Grif and beat him up for it, 'cause why the fuck not_?!"

"Wow, you're really bitter about this, aren't you?"

Tucker's comment went unnoticed by Grif who had now thrown up his arms in order to emphasize his furious rant. "And it's more contagious than I ever realized! This morning Carolina tripped over some stupid equipment and guess who she started yelling at – _me_! I bet Sarge coughed on her in the hallway or something."

"It's not really that suspicious since you were the one in charge of cleaning up the equipment shack," Tucker pointed out and immediately received a sour glance.

Grif now sat up to face him. "Are you on my side or what?"

The Blue held up his hands to prove he was yielding. "I'm not on anybody's side – I'm here to lend you my floor so I can press you for a favor later when I need it."

Snorting, Grif raised an eyebrow. "What – in case Wash finds your hidden porn collection and locks you out?"

"Hey, we don't have stupid domestic arguments like that." Tucker paused for just a moment before adding, without missing a beat, "Besides, Wash is not gonna find my collection 'cause he won't be searching for it 'cause he don't want to touch them."

"What a perfect relationship."

"Well, I'm not the one kicked out of his room."

Grif ran a hand through his hair, mainly because he was still so annoyed that he did not know where to put his hands. "Exactly. _My_ room. This should be illegal."

"Technically it's Simmons' room too."

"Then he can put me in the fucking naughty corner or some shit! Not throw me out on the streets!"

That was maybe some exaggeration since they had moved into Armonia a month ago. Grif had not exactly been wandering the streets like a homeless person after the argument. If desperate he could have asked pretty much anyone for a place to stay for the night (if Matthews had even heard the slightest rumor about his Captain's situation he would have offered to give up his bed for him, probably leaving a little chocolate on the pillow like Grif had heard was the custom on fancy hotels – which did sound nice if not for Matthews' presence) plus the fact that Grif had a mental map of all possible nap places in the city.

But in the end he had chosen to go to Tucker since the Blue would not only be willing to rent his floor for a night but also agreeing to listen to Grif's complaints. And the orange soldier had a major need for getting the load off his mind right now.

Tucker's expression contorted slightly as he tried to force away a smile. "You guys have a naughty corner? Kinky."

"Oh, fuck you, too. Actually, fuck everyone. I hate this world." He lay back down again with a huff. Tucker did not have any snacks in his room so that sucked. He did not have an extra bed either which also sucked. Not even an extra pillow. And this was, of course, all Simmons' fault.

"Hey, after the time Simmons tried out that whole ' _spray-you-in-the-face-with-water-technique_ ' it wouldn't surprise me if he told you to stare at the wall for ten minutes."

Grif's scowl grew even bigger at the memory. "He said it didn't even count as a bath! Bullshit – how can put water in your face and not call it a bath?"

Tucker let out an amused snort. He leaned back against the wall again, making himself comfortable.

Grif had to turn his head to glare at him now. "What?" he grumbled after noticing the expression.

"I'm just impressed that we all might die tomorrow and you guys are still keeping up the domestic bitching."

Right. A bit overdramatic, maybe, but Tucker did have a point. "Isn't being thrown into dangerous stupid shit the new normal by now? Life hates us and we bitch about it. _And_ we're not going to die tomorrow because for once Sarge is not in charge and we can all follow Carolina's strategies which means I won't be used as a living shield."

While Grif did firmly believe that the universe hated his guts – the one man draft had proven that much – he also trusted Carolina's skills. Plus the Freelancer and Kimball had spent so many meetings discussing this mission that every small detail had to be planned by now.

Tucker smirked. "Well, if she's still pissed about the equipment shack you might want to watch your back."

Grif had just opened his to retort when the door opened. Due to Grif's position on the floor, Wash did not notice him at first. "Tucker, what do you thi- Oh," he said after almost stepping on the Red in his room. "Hey, Grif."

He raised an arm as a greeting, not even bothering to sit up. "'sup?"

Wash sent his roommate a questioning look as he stepped inside the room, closing the door behind him. Tucker shrugged. "He and Simmons had an argument."

"Oh," Wash said again, tilting his head look at Grif. "What did you do?"

"Who said I did shit? Maybe, for once, I'm not to blame! Maybe Simmons fucked up. It could happen."

Wash looked at Tucker for confirmation. "Simmons kicked him out," he answered after a moment of consideration. When Grif shot him a sour look he exclaimed, "It was pretty obvious, dude."

The two beds were placed on the opposite side of the room, so when Wash sat down Grif found himself surrounded by Blues staring him down. Sarge would have freaked. "So what _did_ you do?" Wash asked while pushing away the blanket so he did not wrinkle it by sitting on it.

"Nothing unusual. It was Simmons who decided to make it a big deal by locking me out. Even I won't be that evil, Wash – no one has the right to separate a man from his bed. _No one_ ," Grif said darkly and began to stare daggers at the ceiling again.

"Yeah, so I said he could stay here for the night," Tucker added, lifting his glance to meet Wash' eyes.

"Our room," the Freelancer corrected automatically.

Tucker raised a challenging eyebrow. "Duh. Yes. Is that a problem?"

"No," Wash quickly said, hands raised to deflect any arguments. "It's just that a shared room means shared decisions."

"So? It's not like you're disagreeing."

"Hah," Grif cut them off with a snort from the floor. "You're the ones with domestic bitching."

Tucker threw the pillow in his face which Grif proceeded to catch with a surprising elegance. He immediately placed it under his head and his expression revealed he was feeling very satisfied with himself.

Wash' expression, on the other hand, had turned extremely neutral after Grif's comment. However, he could not keep his ears from turning slightly red. "I'm just saying," he began after some seconds, "I don't know _where_ he can sleep in here."

"The floor's fine," Grif replied and when both Blues sent him unsure glances. "Look, I spent half my time in Basic napping in a locker. At least the floor isn't vertical."

"That's… almost impressive," Wash admitted, and from the other bed Tucker nodded in agreement.

Grif smirked slightly as he continued, " _Or_ you two could share a bed and I could get the other one." In all his misery it was a faint comfort to tease the Blues. Of course no one here had an official relationship (who had those these days?) but Tucker had used way too many opportunities to mock Grif and Simmons. This was well-earned revenge.

He had expected Tucker to chuckle or go along with it but instead he was frowning, eyes jumping from Wash to Grif. The Freelancer was completely silent, face still strangely expressionless, but his eyes had this firm look in them that made Grif realize it was probably better to save the mockery for a time Wash wasn't there. Grif would rather not be kicked out from two rooms in one day.

Tucker seemed to have read the same warning in Wash' face and he told Grif, "Dude, a tip here: you want to stay in this room don't try to make Wash uncomfortable."

This was a pretty unfair rule since Tucker had taken pride in making Simmons' blush as often as possible. Not that it required much to make the cyborg's face turn red, but still. Grif rolled his eyes. "Hey, I'm just trying to make it up to you by being your wingman."

Tucker's face was now one serious frown and after kicking Grif's shoulder he warned, "Okay, seriously, knock it off."

"Fine," Grif whined, taking a hint even though the Blues were being unfairly sore about this subject. "But, since the other option isn't there, the floor is fine. Seriously." He quickly put his hands under the pillow as well, secretly grabbing the fabric if Tucker suddenly decided to try and take it back.

But Tucker said nothing and it was Wash who spoke next, "So are you going to apologize to Simmons?"

"What? For Simmons being a bitch? No."

"You might want to have worked it out before tomorrow," Wash said, trying to slip in a reminder as casually as possible. He was probably secretly happy about the fact that he would now be able to wake up Grif himself and drag him onto the mission.

Maybe Grif had forgotten about the job tomorrow just for a second. But only because there had been other things in his mind – mainly Simmons and his bed, and sadly it had not been the right way of imagining Simmons and his bed together.

But tomorrow _early,_ just to make it shittier, they would all be gathering for one big attack. The space pirates Locus and Felix had hired from somewhere had grown a rather big pain in the ass lately. As it turned out many of the old Fed bases still had functional weapons and vehicles in them, and the pirates had been raiding them with such an impressive speed that even the Freelancers had been unable to keep up.

It just seemed like the pirates appeared from out of nowhere, swarmed the base like ants on a cake, and then disappeared again. It had been driving Carolina, Church and Wash crazy – not only because the citizens of Chorus needed those supplies, but also from the simple fact that it sucked to know that Felix and Locus were one step ahead of them.

Well, they had been. So far. Until Church had figured out the pattern between the attacks and had figured out which base the pirates were going to hit next.

Since the place was pretty far from Armonia, the Reds and Blues would not be able to get to the place first. So instead they would let pirates arrive and then surround the place, keeping the pirates _and_ the supplies from leaving.

Grif was not sure of all the details yet, even though Simmons had been blabbering about them the last week, but he had noticed how the cyborg had been praising the plan, meaning they probably had a high chance of surviving. Which meant it was a plan Grif liked.

Even though a long jeep-ride with Simmons did not really sound that pleasant right now. But that was future Grif's problem – right now Grif just kept his focus on where to sleep.

He raised his head to glare at Wash. "Look, Simmons and I don't _work it out_. We bitch about it. That lasts until we find something else to bitch about which causes us to forget the earlier argument. Give it a day or two, until someone brings up the non-existing usefulness of the geometric we were forced to learn in High School, and I'll have my bed back. It's a simple procedure that works."

Wash just stared at him for some seconds, finger slightly raised as if about to lecture him. "That does not sound like a healthy way of sorting out an argument."

"Yeah, and I always go for the healthy life-style," Grif snorted, rolling his eyes. He rolled over to lie on his side, trying to find a comfortable position. With his arm under the pillow it almost felt like he had not been banished to the floor. "Seriously, don't stress about it. This is like the normal procedure."

"He has a point," Tucker admitted. "I mean, whenever things get too rough between them, bow-chicka-bow-wow, one of them turns blue and nags us until they forget whatever stupid shit caused the argument in the first place."

"Hey, I don't turn blue," Grif complained loudly. "Simmons turns blue when he's stressed. _I_ manage to keep my dignity."

"Dude, you got locked out by the lankiest guy in the city. I don't think sleeping on our floor does much for your dignity."

" _Whatever_ ," Grif grumbled, turning over to bury his head in the pillow. He was too tired to deal with the snarky Blue right now. The day had been long enough already, and all of Simmons' shouting had given him a headache.

At least with the mission tomorrow he had a valid reason to go to bed early without anyone bitching at him for being lazy.

Tucker, picking up on Grif's discomfort, grinned. "Looks like I hit a sore spot. Hey, Wash, how do you think he'd look in blue?"

"We're not painting his armor, Tucker."

"It might have worked! If Simmons saw he's hanging out with us now he could turn jealous enough to let him back in. What do you think, Grif?" When no answer came from the soldier on the floor, Tucker reached out a leg to nudge his shoulder. "Grif?"

Grif did not snore – being the Master of Naps meant he was able to sleep almost soundlessly, making it a pain to find him once he was sleeping in one of his hiding places. But the way his eyes were closed and the steady breathing made Tucker realize the conversation was now over. "Holy shit, he's sleeping."

"Almost impressive," Wash had to praise him again. It was not anybody who could fall asleep on the floor that quickly without even having a blanket. The Freelancer tore his eyes away from the sleeping Red. "We should follow his example. We have to get up early tomorrow, after all."

Tucker groaned but he did stand up to strip to his nightwear. "How early?"

"4.30."

"Shit, Grif's going to be a pain in the ass about it." He paused for just a moment before glaring at Wash, "Hey, it's gonna be _your_ job to wake him up."

"I- _Fine_. I expect you to cause less trouble than him." The two Blues slowly began their daily routine, carefully stepping around Grif as they prepared to go to bed. Before Wash crept under the blanket, he glanced one more time at Red before asking Tucker, "Do you even know what their argument is about?"

"Nope," Tucker replied. "Bets are on some mispronunciation or that Grif spilled soda over Simmons' papers again." He sat up in his bed, stretching his arms. "But honestly," he said as he reached out for the nearby light switch.

The room was engulfed by darkness, hiding the sleeping figure on the floor.

"…It probably doesn't even matter."

* * *

A/N: Look at me starting _another_ multi-chapter story. Anyways, this became a fully fleshed out plot back in December and I've wanted to write it ever since and here we are, _finally_.

So this story is going to contain a bit more action than what I usually write (Okay, "Seeing Red" does have action now when I think about it) and there won't be the usual bigger time-jump that you'd find in "Shake" or "As Seasons Pass". So, yeah, this basically means I can finally make cliffhangers. Which I look forward to.

This first chapter is a bit slower and shorter than what I would've liked but it creates the setting and there'll hopefully be action in the next chapter when the mission begins. And Locus and Felix should make an appearance soon!

So I'm going with the kinda AU-ish thing where we find ourselves between season 12 and 13 because I want all our heroes together but I also need the villains alive. I'm looking forward to the scenes with Felix and Locus – I've been using those characters far too little.

Off to a good start, let's see where it all ends!

Thanks for reading!


	2. Contact

A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

 **Offer Me Your Hand  
** _Contact_

Grif made sure the scowl stayed on his face even as he opened his mouth to eat his breakfast. He made sure to eat quickly as well, spoonful after spoonful of porridge entering his mouth, in order to keep himself unable to talk.

He had been grumpy from the very beginning – no good day would begin with Wash screaming at you with his soldier voice, ordering Grif to get the fuck up for the fifth time. And while the Freelancer may not have threatened him with a shotgun like Sarge used to, Grif knew better than to test his luck with Wash.

So he had grudgingly left the floor and followed the Blues down to the mess hall. It was barely half-filled since the only people awake at this time of the day were the soldiers who would be joining the mission.

Grif caught the sight of some of the men from his own squad – it was hard to miss Matthews when he was waving at his Captain like a maniac. Grif did not return the gesture but instead navigated around the already taken tables until he found his usual spot. Wash had disappeared to talk with Carolina, and Tucker had probably gone with him.

Honestly, Grif was very surprised when Simmons took place on the opposite side of the table. The cyborg put down his tray very gently instead of slamming it against the surface which meant he had either let go of his anger or he was being passive-aggressive.

Grif refused to acknowledge his presence and focused on his porridge that seemed to be getting stiffer for every time it was served in the mess hall.

Simmons did not eat but stirred his food for some minutes all while trying to catch Grif's eyes. When the Hawaiian continued to avoid eye-contact he put down his spoon before asking innocently, "Slept well?"

"Fuck you, Simmons," Grif replied immediately, his mouth full.

The cyborg snorted – so he had definitely been going with the passive-aggressiveness - and glared at him. "That was a thoughtful question, asshole."

"Could have slept better," Grif let him know as he leaned back in his chair. "In my bed instead of the floor."

Simmons frowned slightly at that comment. "I thought you'd sleep in Donut's room." Perhaps knowing that Grif had spent his night on a floor made him feel a bit guilty.

"Oh, fuck no," Grif barely managed to say before a pink armored soldier dropped into the seat next to him.

Donut placed his helmet on the table, revealing a too bright as he asked, "Ooh, who's gonna sleep with me?"

"No one," Grif replied and began to eat again. He did not want to talk with Donut and he most definitely did not want to talk with Simmons. Once again food turned out to be a life-saver and Grif made sure to stuff his mouth.

Simmons stared at him for a while, watching the lack of proper manners with a disgusted look on his face. As he began to poke his own porridge with his spoon, he muttered, "You don't have to be overdramatic about it, Grif."

Grif was about to shout back but forgot his full mouth and spent half a minute choking and gagging on his breakfast. Simmons waited with a slightly amused expression – at least he had just proven that Grif's lack of manners were indeed a problem.

When his airway was cleared, Grif wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the motion angry and quick. Glaring darkly at the person in front of him, he snarled, "You're the one being overdramatic. One little mess and you're losing your fucking mind."

"First of all, that was not a small mess. A big, fucking, disgusting mess that _you_ refused to clean up."

"I might have," Grif grumbled, crossing his arms. "You might not have heard me offering my help over all your bitching."

"You didn't offer any help," Simmons replied flatly. "You said that since we share the room we should share the work load. And since you did all the _work_ ," he snorted loudly, "when it came to creating the mess, _I_ should be the one to clean it up."

Grif looked like he may have been about to argue but going against his own words was not easy. Especially when Simmons had such an annoying, specific memory when it came to quoting Grif. With nothing to retort with, he settled with scowling.

"It should be pretty clear, Grif – if you like your room that much you have to take care of it. _You_ make a mess, _you_ fix it," Simmons replied rather calmly. The only reason why he wasn't shouting was because he was trying to keep his voice as stern as possible.

"Well, I say it's pretty fucking clear that when you banish your roommate forever because of some fucking spilled soda, you're overreaction."

Simmons raised a shaking finger as he tried to bite back his frustration. "I did _not_ kick you out for good, Grif – don't go around telling people that." He paused for a moment before explaining further, "I just told you to fuck off until you apologize."

"Yeah, but I'm not gonna apologize so you actually told you to fuck off forever. You're so heartless, Simmons."

The cyborg met his stare and the way his mouth turned into a pale, white line revealed this he was indeed very pissed. Not that Grif really gave a shit by this point. "This – _this_ is why I had enough, Grif. You've been such a pain in the ass the last couple of weeks, I don't even-"

"I heard the weather is going to be nice today!" Donut chirped very loudly. His two fellow Reds turned their heads very slowly to stare at him – at some point during their argument they had simply forgotten his presence.

Donut was smiling very brightly, as if trying to rub off the happiness on his friends. So Grif made sure he was still scowling as he replied, "Yeah? I heard it's going to rain bullets. Which reminds me -" He turned his head to glare at Simmons again, "can I go pick up my armor?" His tone was too formal not to sound like he was mocking him.

"Yes," Simmons replied immediately – the thought of letting Grif go into battle without armor was so unreal that this was his first answer. Then he seemed to remember that he was still pissed off, and he added, "Just don't break anything else."

Grif's mouth twitched before he spun around, leaving the others by the table as he walked out of the mess hall with big steps. His tray with the now empty bowl was left on his usual spot, well-knowing that Simmons would have to clean it up later.

Simmons sighed when he noticed, and, as he suddenly felt full, pushed his own plate away. Donut watched him, eyebrows touching each other in concern as he frowned. "Now that's no good way to start the day!"

"It's fine," the cyborg said briefly, trying to brush off the subject, but quickly fell into the temptation of lamenting out loud. "I mean, things would be better if Grif could just stop being an asshole for half a day."

"I'm pretty sure that Doc has studied up on couple counselling," Donut offered, "You could-"

" _No_."

"Or you could let _me_ -"

" _NO_!" Simmons exclaimed, voice even more horrified at the thought of him and Grif facing Donut for an hour, while the pink soldier would lecture them about how to take proper of your relationship. Which should be an impossible scenario since, first of all, he and Grif did not have a relationship, plus there was no way in hell he could drag Grif along to such a session unless they served free cake.

Donut pouted at the instant dismissal. "Well, things between the two of you obviously aren't great at the moment. Just what did Grif do?"

"That's what I want to know," Tucker said, suddenly appearing in the seat next to Simmons.

The Red flinched a bit at the sudden appearance but then moved a bit to side to allow the newcomer more space. Now when two persons were staring intensely at him in expectation he could not help but duck his head slightly. "Well," he began, "he broke my bed. Among other things. The last couple of weeks he's been so-"

"Grif broke your bed?" Tucker cut him off by exclaiming in disbelief, a chuckle lying just beneath the surface. "That sounds-"

" _Don't_ ," Simmons warned him darkly, making sure the Blue knew that he was not in the mood.

Tucker shrunk back, taking the hint "Fine," he muttered, disappointment staining his voice. Now they all missed a great joke. "But, seriously, divorces are expensive as shit. You should make out instead."

"Like it's that easy," Simmons muttered to the leftovers of his porridge. "And we're not going to _make out_. If anything, Grif is going to _make it up_ to me by cleaning up his messes."

Knowing their fellow friend's habit of running away from duties, Tucker snorted, "Good luck with that."

Donut shook his head, apparently tired of all the negativity in the room. He reached over the table to put a gentle hand on Simmons' shoulder. "I'm sure you two will work it out."

"No, we won't." The cyborg shrugged the hand off himself while he stared at the spot the Hawaiian had been sitting. "Grif refuses to do anything that has the word _work_ in it."

* * *

The ride is was tense. Grif was the driver since the orange soldier was _always_ the driver and Simmons was _always_ too late to call out "Shotgun" and when Simmons had tried to find a spot in the Warthog, Donut had already placed himself behind the machine gun.

With Grif behind the wheel and Simmons in the passenger seat the sour mood was to be expected. Simmons kept his eyes on the road, commenting every once in a while on how fast Grif was driving and how irresponsible that was and how Simmons was going to absolutely murder Grif if he got them all killed. Grif responded by pushing down harder on the pedal – until Simmons warned him that if he would not slow down, he would lose his privileges and then Simmons would have to drive instead.

Grif had experienced enough rides with Simmons as a driver to know that he could absolutely not allow that to happen so he grudgingly lifted his foot a bit. Then there was silence where none of them refused to look at each other and where Donut grew more and more restless.

In the beginning he tried to spark a conversation but whenever he asked if the forest looked especially green today or if anyone else was feeling excited or if the machine gun had just been polished none of his teammates bothered to answer.

When Donut came to the conclusion that no one was going to reply, he began to hum loudly.

Before he could break into actual song, Grif made sure to switch on the radio and turn the volume up. The sound of polka music could be heard throughout the forest.

Which was probably why Wash was already waiting for them with his hands on his hips. "You're late."

"Sorry," Grif replied as he jumped out of the jeep without even sounding apologetic. "But _someone_ thought I was gonna flip the car if we accidently outpaced the snails."

"With the way you're driving we were bound to have an accident," Simmons replied calmly as he took place next to him. He nodded briefly at Wash to apologize their late arrival.

"It's a rocky road," Grif snapped. "As in a road that is rocky. Not the ice cream."

"Most of our men have already taken position," Carolina, who had been studying a map of the Fed Base until they arrived, cut them off before their bickering could evolve into an actual argument. The Freelancer was using her mission-voice, causing even Grif to listen closely. "But we're unsure if the pirates are awaiting reinforcements. From what we can tell, they all came from the eastern part of the forest. We need you two to scout the area and inform us if you see any activity."

Grif was happy about the plan at first. This all meant he would not be a part of the actual fight in the Base – just the way he liked it. Let the volunteers do the hard job. This was the good part of being in charge of infiltration; people just expected you to keep a distance, watch and report if something moved, and people didn't even give a shit if you ate a snack while keeping watch.

Then he realized she was talking about both him and Simmons, and since he had barely survived the tension from the ride, he shook his head. "Can't I get somebody else?"

"We need Donut's throwing arm near the battle front. And you know that Sarge is not fond of infiltration work. You could take Caboose-"

"Hell no!" Grif exclaimed. His instant reply caused the Blue soldier to let out a disappointed "Aw."

"I suppose Caboose would not be best choice for a scouting mission," Carolina admitted, casting a short glance on said soldier.

Caboose looked up at the sound of his name and then tilted his head in wonder. "Is scouting the new name for hide and seek? Because I'm really good at that game."

"Yeah, except you shoot the person when you find them… Which is actually the way you play hide and seek, Caboose, so sure," Church realized with a slight snort. He appeared on Carolina's shoulder, staring at the Reds. "But seriously, hurry the fuck up 'cause we're moving out now."

"Fine." Grif sighed dramatically. "I guess I'll settle with the nerd."

"I feel so honored," Simmons spat dryly through gritted teeth before grabbing the rifle from his shoulder.

The group was about to split there: Grif and Simmons heading East while the Freelancers and Donut would continue the road down to join up with the others who were waiting to begin the ambush on the base. But then the Lieutenants, who had been keeping themselves busy sorting weapons as they rested on a nearby rock, suddenly let their presence be known.

It was Palomo, of course, who quickly shot up a hand as Wash was about to walk past them. "Uh, quick question. Just how do we stop the cars?"

"Well, hopefully, the troops further down will stop any vehicle from leaving the base. But should that fail we are counting on you guys – we cannot lose these supplies. Here." The Freelancer picked up a sniper rifle that had been leaning against the rock and gave it to Palomo. "If you want to stop a vehicle, aim for the driver."

Palomo accepted the weapon with hands shaking in excitement. "I got the sniper rifle," he whispered in awe.

Grif held back a snort: that was definitely Tucker's Lieutenant. Then Simmons grabbed his arm to pull him along, "C'mon, we have to get moving."

"Right," Grif sighed, but follow the maroon soldier out of the clearing. "We cannot be late when it comes to finding the enemies that may or may not exist!"

"Quit whining: I know you're happy you got this job," Simmons told him. He did not look over his shoulder when he talked with Grif, mainly because he had to watch the ground in order not to fall on any roots or loose rocks.

Grif was fine with that. He did not need eye-contact (well, visor-contact technically) right now. And Simmons was kind of right: so maybe this mission did not suck entirely. And maybe it was not so bad to have Simmons as a partner.

It was better than Donut who could not shut up about Double-O Donut when they were on an infiltration mission. Or Lopez who still had a habit of hitting Grif over the head. Or Sarge who did not understand the word _infiltration_.

That much had been proven a week earlier when they had received a package of dynamite that Grif had tried to acquire to his own team. For obvious reasons. Dynamite was of course _the_ best way to create a distraction. Therefor it should go to the infiltration team.

Sarge, on the other hand, had apparently confused dynamite with grenades and claimed it was the perfect weapon when attacking the enemy. Grif had begun to argue, trying to at least win Simmons over to his side, but then Caboose had proudly announced that dynamite was best for firework.

Wash, knowing this was the fastest way to end the argument, had agreed with Caboose and Tucker, with a too big smile on his face, had done the same.

Grif was pulled out of his thoughts when he tripped over a root. Cursing, he almost lost his balance but managed to support himself against the trunk. He did, however, lose his grip on his rifle.

"Watch where you are walking," Simmons grumbled as his teammate leaned over to pick up his weapon. The maroon soldier did halt as he did so, but the moment Grif straightened out his back, he was walking again.

Grif cursed under his breath as he struggled to keep up. "What, so we are still pissed at each other?"

"Well, you haven't apologized yet."

"Neither have you."

Simmons halted immediately. "But _I_ don't-"

He was cut off by a scratching sound inside his helmet, indicating someone was starting up the radio. "Heeeey, Simmons."

"Donut," Simmons sighed.

The pink soldier took that as a greeting. "So Sarge is wondering if you might know where that crate of dynamite is?"

"Grif took it," Simmons relied while glaring at said teammate who took the opportunity to rest against a tree. "So how the hell should I know where it is?"

"Because Grif took it?"

That was a fairly good point since Simmons usually kept track of Grif's messes. It was a bad habit. But as far as Simmons was concerned, Grif had stolen the crate and given it to his own team, and Simmons never really delved into Gold Team's strategies. He did not dare – the amount of illogical strategies would give him a headache. "Well, I don't know."

"But how am I supposed to blow-"

"Good luck, Donut," Simmons said quickly before cutting off the radio. He was not done with his argument with Grif yet, and if he let the other soldier have too much time to think, he might come up with a stupid excuse to avoid responsibility. The cyborg cleared his throat before picking up where he had been interrupted, "As I said, _I_ don't-"

Grif held up a hand to silence him. "Hold on." The hand now rested against a panel on his helmet. " _What_ , Donut? No, I don't know where the fuck it is. Yes, I _had_ them. I don't keep track of shit, go ask Bitters." With a flick of his finger he too cut off the communication.

"What the fuck?" he muttered in annoyance. "Why aren't they doing shit on their team? I thought we were in a rush and now suddenly we have time to chit chat." He had barely finished his sentence before he stiffened again. "Oh, for fuck's sake." The hand, once again, flew up to his helmet. "Sarge, I really don't – well, those dynamites won't do the mission much good if you use them to blow me up as punishment, will they? Look, we're busy, go yell at Bitters instead."

Simmons watched Grif's hands fall and he had just taken in a deep breath in order to try to finish his sentence one more time when the orange soldier cursed loudly. "He won't stop calling me!" he whined.

"Okay, just turn off your radio. They can handle themselves without us for some minutes," Simmons said and truly hoped he was right. Well, if was actually given the chance to finish his so well-spoken argument then Grif would realize he was wrong and he would apologize. They could finally get this matter over with. It would only take a few minutes.

Knowing that both Donut and Sarge would call him if they could not reach Grif, Simmons copied his orange teammate's motions and turned off his own radio completely. "Great," he said, now when they had finally been granted silence. "As I was trying to say: _I_ don't-"

"Shut up," a rough, unfamiliar voice threatened from behind him. Something bumped against the back of his helmet and Simmons guessed it was the barrel of a gun. The way Grif had stiffened definitely indicated it was not something nice. "And drop your weapons."

Simmons dared to raise his glance, knowing his eyes were hidden behind the visor, to see if Grif had any chance of getting them out of this situation. But looking up only revealed that three more pirates had snuck up on them, two of them aiming at Grif's head while the last one was threatening Simmons from the front.

Gulping, he loosened his grip on his rifle that fell to the ground. He saw Grif do the same behind the gray-armored pirate.

"Well, shit," Grif complained loudly, and the pirates' weapons inched closer to him in order to keep him quiet.

As much as Simmons had hated being forced to agree with Grif the last couple of days, he could not help but think the exact same words right now.

* * *

A/N: I wanted to get this chapter out as quickly as possible so you could get an idea of what the actual plot is about. What exactly Grif has done will be revealed throughout the story (there are two sides of what happened).

I'm very excited for the next chapter, though my other stories will be updated first. "Shake" will be updated this week, so that's good!

Thanks for reading!


	3. Explosive Arguments

A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

 **Offer Me Your Hand  
** _Explosive Arguments_

"This is your fault," Simmons hissed from the corner of his mouth. He did not dare to turn his head in order to glare daggers at his teammate. The pirates kept close on all sides of them, making sure they did not attempt to run.

Grif, on the other hand, found the bravery or stupidity to send Simmons a sharp glance. "How can this possibly be my fault, Mister ' _oh let us turn off our radios 'cause that's a great idea!'_ "

Simmons scowled but said nothing. With their radios turned off, the others would not even be able to track them, whenever they discovered that the two members of the Red Team had gone missing. And that could take some time.

To be honest, Simmons was not quite sure how big troubles their friends were in. The pirates had been able to take him and Grif by surprise – maybe the same had happened to the rest of the group. But Simmons watched the surprisingly big number of enemies that were now keeping them prisoners. Their plan was to take them to another camp that was under Felix' and Locus' control. That meant there were pirates there as well. All in all, that was a lot of pirates that were not in the place they had expected them to be.

So either the rest of the Reds and Blues had ambushed an almost empty base or the pirates had gotten away before the attack or the amount of pirates was simply much greater than they had thought.

Simmons was not sure which of the options was correct and it annoyed him more than he dared to let on. But right now he had enough to focus on with the enemy's rifle that was aimed at his back.

Grif stumbled over yet another root which slowed down the whole group. The pirates immediately trailed all their weapons at him, fearing this might be an attempt to escape, but they seemed far less serious about it then the first time Grif has fallen to the ground. They had probably just come to the conclusion that Grif was actually not stupid to attempt to run while being surrounded, but instead he was merely a lazy fatass that never looked where he walked.

Simmons could not blame him that much. They had been marching for almost three hours now - at least that was what the small digital watch in the bottom of his cyborg vision told him. They may have taken his helmet from him, but they could never stop him from being 6 digits specific about the time.

And while Simmons took pride in knowing his own physique was much better than Grif's, he too could feel the exhaustion creep up on him, making his legs feel extremely heavy. He wondered how bad Grif must be feeling right now. It was a miracle the orange soldier was still walking. It was probably the guns that kept him from falling to the forest floor in defeat.

One of the pirates reached down the grab him roughly by the arm, shoving him back on his feet. Grif made sure to send him a scowl.

His expression was visible to them now, since the pirates had forced them to give up their helmets when they had surrendered. Just in case they did not attempt to turn the radio back on. Their weapons had been removed too, of course, leaving them practically helpless.

If Grif had hoped for the march to end soon, then his wish was granted. The thickness of the forest seemed to die out and as they stepped into a clearing Simmons realized they had reached the pirates' camp.

It was bigger than expected. Tents and a few makeshift shelters. Most impressive was the amount of crates: both wooden and metal version of them were gathered _everywhere_ , stocked on top of each other to the point where they could barely see the cliff wall that sheltered the back of the camp. The crates almost seemed to create some sort of labyrinth, only sometimes revealing movement as a soldier patrolled the area.

They were stacking supplies. Obviously. A lot of them.

Simmons tried to figure out just _where_ they had been lead to. The forest had robbed him of most of his sense of direction.

It was the big, red warning signs on some of the crates that sparked his theory. Crates of dynamites, from what he could see. Simmons knew that Chorus had mines in order to gather resources. He also knew that most of them had been shut down due to poor maintenance during the war. Many of the tunnels had collapsed. The soldiers of Chorus had mainly just steered away from the underground.

But this… Simmons would bet this was one of the old mine entrances.

His thoughts were cut off when more soldiers appeared from between the crates. "What did you find?" a pirate with a slightly cracked visor asked. He sounded amused at the sight of the newcomers, and Simmons hated him by instinct.

"Found these idiots blabbering in the woods," the pirate who had once placed a gun behind Simmons' head said. "I'm sure Felix can get some use out of them." He put their weapons and helmets on a nearby crate, and Simmons tried not to send it hungry looks.

"Wait, they're some of the Sim troopers?" Another pirate had appeared from within the camp. When he realized the answer to his question can only be yes, 'cause who else would wear such colorful armor, he rushed to the crate where they had placed the prisoners' gear.

The other pirates seemed as confused as Simmons felt. "What the fuck are you doing?" one of them growled.

"It's their helmets, man! You gotta switch them off! Don't you remember the stunt one of them pulled last time? You want Felix to get that furious again?" He had picked up Simmons' helmet, turning it over, looking at it in suspicion before furiously pressing the buttons on the side of it. "You gotta make sure they're not filming."

"It's not…" Simmons began in a low voice, afraid that his comment might stir up anger. "It's not turned on." He winched as the pirate continued to tear in his helmet, pressing buttons he was not supposed to press. "Look, there's no need to do that."

"Dude, don't piss them off," Grif muttered, sending him a dismayed look.

Simmons frowned. "They're gonna break it," he muttered. He did not like to see _his_ equipment being manhandled like that.

"You got bigger stuff to worry about," one of the pirates warned them.

Grif snorted. "Yeah? Is this the point where you say you're gonna break _us_? 'cause if this is torture session you should start it now or else I'm gonna take the time to nap. I'm _exhausted_."

Simmons' jaw dropped as he looked him. "Who's the one pissing them off now?" he hissed.

"How about you both stop testing us?" a pirate suggested, waving his gun a bit too close to their faces.

"Hands out," the one with the damaged visor ordered, dangling two sets of handcuffs. With little else to do, Simmons and Grif did what they were told, both trying to look as indifferent as possible to the new pressure around their wrists. Simmons knew it was useless to test the strength of the handcuffs but he pretended to do so anyway, watching out of the corner of his eye how to pirate placed the key in one of his armor pockets.

The crowd of pirates died out slowly, returning to their posts or whatever tasks they had been up to before the arrival. The biggest asshole, the one who had kept poking Simmons with his gun, told the remaining soldiers. "I'm going to call the bosses and let them know of this... _opportunity_." He glared at Grif and Simmons as he said the words, but then he turned to the pirate with the cracked visor. "You watch them. We've made sure they're unarmed."

He began to walk off, the last four pirates following him. One of them said to the guy who had now earned the role as guard, "Too bad we don't have gags, huh. They never shut up."

He flipped them off. "I'm gonna make sure they stay quiet."

Then he turned his visor towards the prisoners, doing his job as they had no choice but to stand straight in front of them.

As Simmons desperately tried to survey their new surroundings, the soldier keeping guard noticed the way the cyborg's eyes continued to dart around. "Hey," he growled, instantly gaining their attention. "Stop thinking."

Simmons pulled his head back in confusion. "I… What?"

"Thinking," the pirate repeated himself. "I can see you're doing it. So stop it."

That statement only caused the cyborg to frown – and Grif to let out a sigh since he knew what we coming. Simmons furrowed his eyebrows. "Well, you cannot _not_ think. It's a fundamental part of being human. At least, if you read Descartes' philosophy, you would-"

"Oh my god," Grif groaned, and both of the surrounding soldiers turned their head to stare at him. "Can please stop trying to get killed from being a nerd? It's humiliating."

Simmons' cheeks turned slightly red and he had just opened his mouth to retort when the pirate began to flail his weapon around. "You both stay quiet," he snapped.

The barrel of the gun made Simmons chew the inside of his cheek, at least living up to the pirate's demands. He wondered if the others had noticed of they were missing by now, or if their friends were in just as big trouble.

Occasionally a low groan or sigh would escape Grif's lips and finally, he had to ask, "Can we sit down or something? 'cause-"

"Shut. Up." The pirate stiffened and a hand flew up to his helmet. He answered the radio with an angry, "What?!" He turned around slightly to focus on the call.

Grif leaned slightly closer to Simmons without taking his eyes off the pirate, "So?"

"So what?" Simmons hissed back, and this all reminded him of the days in Basic where Grif had attempted to have a conversation while the Drill Sergeant was speaking. It had most often ended with Grif dragging Simmons into trouble even though Grif was the one who was guilty of breaking orders. God, Simmons had hated him back then.

"Well, you are thinking, as you so obviously pointed out to _everyone_."

Biting his lip for a short moment, Simmons eyed the pirate who, luckily, was still too distracted to pick up on their conversation. "I think this might be one of the old mine entrances. With all the explosive they've gathered, they could be working on clearing the tunnels."

"So all of that is dynamite? And such stuff?" Grif gestured towards crates that were spread around the entire area, and Simmons had to nod slightly. Letting out a low snort, Grif said, "Man, Sarge would have loved this."

Simmons was about to reply when the pirate laughed in a dry this-is-not-funny-at-all way. "Ahahaha. Asshole. I'll make sure you get stuck with the next shift." As he clicked off his radio, he turned his head to stare at the prisoners again. Simmons made sure to keep his back straight. Grif's shoulders were slumped, not from defeat, but from exhaustion. It all reminded Simmons of Basic Training.

"Is this like an execution?" Grif suddenly asked, very loudly, and both Simmons and the pirate stared at him. "'cause I've been almost executed and I know how that works. Last wish and all. Do we get that here?"

Simmons realized Grif had a plan. Simmons' stomach sunk because he realized Grif had a plan. And it already seemed like a stupid plan.

At least the guard just snorted in amusement. "What? Want to beg for mercy?"

"Nope," Grif replied casually, like they were not helplessly facing a man who could kill them within a second. "It's just that you fuckers are fetching Felix and Locus which is probably the same as lining up the firing squad. And if I'm gonna die, I'm gonna have my last smoke."

"Well, unfortunately for you I don't have any," the pirate replied in a manner that suggested he would not have given him them in the first place. Of course he wouldn't. Simmons was not sure what Grif was trying to achieve.

Grif rolled his eyes. "Wasn't counting on that. Would have fetched them from my pocket myself but…" He shook his cuffed hands. "So last wish or not? I'll keep quiet with a smoke in my mouth, I promise."

Simmons blinked and realized what he was trying to do. It was stupid, of course, but so far Simmons had nothing else to attribute to the situation. "It's the only way he'll shut up," he added with a slight shrug.

But even stupid plans could work if people were stupid enough, and the pirate placed his rifle on his back and took a step forward. Grif kept up his bored expression but Simmons' could spot the slight smirk as the pirate fished out the package of cigarettes as well as a small lighter.

Then he promptly turned around, removed his helmet and placed it on the crate behind him. The pirate looked way too smug as he placed one of Grif's cigarettes between his lips and lit it.

"Hey, asshole!" Grif barked at the sight. "Those were mi-" His words were replaced with a gasp of pain when the pirate suddenly lashed out, hitting his across the face.

Simmons' body jerked slightly but he kept himself in place even as the strain caused his muscles to hurt. "Don't-" he gasped out the plea before stopping himself. He wasn't sure if he had been begging for Grif to stop asking for it or for the guard to refrain from punishing him. The slap had come as a surprise to the both of them, though in hindsight they should probably have seen it coming.

Grif's stare had darkened as he turned his head back to glare daggers at the pirate. This was going to leave a bruise and the pirate glove had managed to rip his skin slightly near his cheekbone, the drop of blood very red against the pale skin that had once belonged to Simmons.

The pirate smirked, leaning closer to blow smoke into Grif's face. "Got a problem?" he asked as the Hawaiian wrinkled his nose. Grif refused to let his expression change but Simmons could spot the anger in his eyes even from where he was standing.

Resting his arm on the crate, the pirate made himself comfortable, chuckling slightly so the cigarette shook between his lips.

The staring match continued until they all heard the sound of boots against the gravel. Simmons would have stretched his neck to see who was approaching them (please let it not be Locus and Felix, please let it not be Locus and Felix, please let it not be-) but was distracted by their guard who suddenly jolted.

He dropped the cigarette as if he had burned himself and quickly pressed the helmet back onto his own head. Simmons was not sure if smoking was not allowed – which really should be the case due to the fact they were surrounded by explosives, for fuck's sake – or that the pirate was simply trying to hide the cigarettes from his fellow assholes so he did not have to share.

When Simmons could finally tear his glance away from the now very innocent-looking pirate, he noticed with relief that the approaching soldiers were not the feared mercenaries. They were asshole, of course, but less dangerous assholes.

"Just made contact with the bosses," one of the two new pirates said as they halted. While it was clear that he was speaking to the guard, his head was turned towards their captives, probably sending them a nasty smile. "They're gonna pick up the prisoners here and then take them to the Cenest Post to regroup with the others. Sounds like they have some _big plans_ for these two."

That did not sound good. _That did not sound good_. Simmons wished he could have a pokerface like Grif but he knew his panicked thoughts were showing right now.

"March them to the jeeps. The bosses don't want to be slowed down here."

The pirate took the lead along with the cracked-visor guard. Cocking the shotgun, the third pirate went to take the rear, gesturing for Grif and Simmons to get in line in front of him.

Simmons had just taken one step when Grif suddenly got in his way, tripping before falling towards the ground. He managed to make his bound hands take most of the fall and he glared over his shoulder to snarl at Simmons, "Watch it!"

The sound of anger in his voice made Simmons want to defend himself and he had just opened his mouth to sneer back when he realized that he had not tripped Grif. It may have looked like it, but Grif had been the one to tangle legs with Simmons. So it was Grif's fault.

Simmons processed this information as Grif managed to push himself up from the ground. His hands were clenched into fists.

And then Simmons realized the stupid plan was still happening.

They began to march since they had both learned that a shotgun pointed at their back meant _get moving_. Simmons held his breath as he waited. It was a stupid, stupid idea but honestly the prospect of being handed to Felix and Locus seemed even worse.

He spotted the opportunity the same second as Grif did. The crate which lid was pushed astray, leaving an opening. There was a big, red danger symbol painted on the side of it.

Oh god.

But Simmons decided to help this plan along and he made sure to casually take a step so he was walking in the left side of the small passage between the crates. Crossing his fingers, he hoped he could serve as a shield as Grif quickly flung the cigarette he had been hiding in his hands into the crate.

Simmons awaited shouting from the pirate walking behind them but nothing happened. He had not seen it.

No way they could be this lucky.

Grif noticeable quickened his pace and Simmons could not help but do the same. Oh fucking shit, this was going to be bad. He was not sure what the plan was after this – he was not quite sure if this could even be called a plan. This was the beginning of a stupid distraction which was something Grif was a master of.

They rounded another corner in the labyrinth consisting of crates and tents and various supplies until they finally reached a clearing where the pirates had parked their vehicles. Simmons watched the jeep he and Grif would be chained to, probably, and he wondered why nothing had happened yet.

Maybe the cigarette had died out? Maybe it just hadn't been enough? Maybe it had not landed in the right position to set anything on fire? Maybe the crate had been empty? Maybe-

They had put enough distance between themselves and the crate that they could most definitely hear the explosion but the force from it was not enough to push them off their feet. At least the crate had not started a chain reaction as Simmons had feared, otherwise they would be in big trouble. Eh, _bigger_ trouble.

They all turned their head to stare at the spot the smoke had appeared from. "What the fuck what that?" the pirate behind them asked.

"We're under attack!" the other one exclaimed and suddenly the whole camp seemed to come alive. Movement appeared from all corners as all the soldiers grabbed their weapons and rushed to defend the area.

The only pirate that stayed where he was, which meant staying with Grif and Simmons, was the cracked-visor guard. He was gripping his rifle tightly, occasionally turning slightly to aim at the other's prisoners head. Just to keep things exciting.

"Don't try anything," he warned them.

" _We_ won't," Grif replied. He tilted his head, seemingly looking at something behind the pirate. "Oh, hey, Carolina-"

Apparently the pirate had heard of the Freelancer and he immediately spun around, rifle raised, but before he could as much as yell, they pounced.

At least Grif's weight made it possible to take down them the pirate. Simmons made sure to kick the rifle away before pressing down his bound hands on the guy's back, keeping him down as Grif got up to kick him in the stomach and then the head. The already cracked visor was shattered until his unconscious face was revealed.

"That's for my face, you asshole," Grif muttered, pleased with the revenge. Simmons ignored him and with bound hands he fumbled with the armor pocket where he remembered the guard had hid the key.

His cuffed hands made it impossible for him to free himself so he stood up to face Grif. "Here," he said, fumbling a bit with the key until Grif's handcuffs fell to the ground. He pressed the key into his friend's hands and his eyes darted around as he impatiently waited to get freed as well. "Hurry up."

"I'm trying," Grif hissed back. Finally, a _click_ could be heard and Simmons began to rub his sore wrists. He only had some seconds of comfort, however, since they could hear commotion not too far behind them. It was just a matter of time before the pirates realized they were not under attack and they would return to check on the prisoners.

Grif grabbed the guard's rifle and Simmons let out a sigh of relief when he noticed the pistol on the unconscious man's thigh. He had just picked it up when the pirates began to fire at them. "Oh fuck!"

Two pirates seemed have been patrolling the perimeter and were now closing in on them from the road – the most obvious way out of here. Grif leapt for one of the jeeps but Simmons only just managed to grab him by the shoulder and pull him back, narrowly getting him out of the bullet's way.

Searching for cover, they ended up having to run back into the camp. Simmons noticed how they were now running near the cliff wall, and while that meant no gunfire coming from that direction, it also gave them a bigger chance of getting cornered.

Bullets bounced off the cliff and Simmons cursed under his breath as more pirates had picked up their trail. Grif turned around to fire back. "Assholes!"

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Simmons hissed, grabbing his arms to stop him from wasting any more ammo plus forcing him to start running again.

"I'm returning fire! Like we should!"

Simmons could kill him. He was going to kill him. Oh god, if they escaped this mess, he was going to strangle him. "Are you that stupid?!" he hissed. It was a stupid question really, because of course Grif was that stupid. "This place is filled with explosives – you can't fire your gun! What if you hit one of the crates?!"

"Well, they're doing it so why can't-"

Everything happened very quickly after that.

Simmons jinxed it. Simmons absolutely jinxed it. And he cursed himself for doing so.

Something exploded again, knocking them both of their feet. When Simmons was able look up, the ringing in his ears was too loud for him to hear Grif shouting but his idiot teammate was definitely screaming at him.

Simmons looked Grif's face but then to the crates behind them. And the crates to the left of Simmons. Somehow, Simmons' brain managed to scramble together the fact that this was the mine entrance. The pirates had been gathered up most of their explosives near the mine entrance. Tunnels. They were clearing tunnels – hadn't Kimball once mentioned an underground system – damaged mining tunnels shut down but if cleared – suddenly appearing – like roads – and they could –

Grif grabbed him the arm, pulling him from the ground. Flailing his arms around, Simmons tried to warn him that they needed to get out of here, that with all the dynamites stacked around them –

Another explosion, louder this time. Simmons felt the bile rising in his mouth as he felt the ground shake under them – the roof of the mine, they were standing on the roof of the mine – and there was so much chaos around them now.

It was Grif who pushed the both of them into what looked like a little shelter. Simmons wondered if Grif had realized it was not a shelter by then. If he would have regretted his decision had he known he had just placed them both in an elevator shaft that gave out when the chain explosion happened.

Simmons felt the elevator shake before it fell and after that it was all a blur. He really wished they still had their helmets and he tried to protect his head using his arms. Then they were falling and Simmons was faintly aware that he had been flung out of the elevator's protective cage, losing sight of Grif, and then he hit the ground.

He only lost consciousness for a short moment, feeling very thankful for the rest of his body armor since his shoulder had taken the fall. It still hurt like a bitch. More than just that, actually.

Simmons' vision was swimming and he felt both sore and numb on the same time. There was a bit of light from the spot where the elevator had fallen from.

The fall had not been that high, otherwise they would not have survived it, and Simmons tried to stand up, to get to the elevator cage that lay dented on the ground.

However, his legs where shaking far too much and he stumbled backwards to land on his butt. A low rumbling caused him to look upwards.

It took far too long for Simmons' brain to process the fact that the mine ceiling was coming down.

He did not even have the time to call out Grif's name before the rocks hit him.

* * *

A/N: Fight scenes were never my strength so forgive that. I hope the adrenalin was there, though.

Not much to say about this chapter, really. Except, I guess, sorry – not sorry for the cliffhanger?

Thank you so much for the support so far, guys! And thanks for reading!


	4. If You're Happy and You Know It

**Offer Me Your Hand  
** _If You're Happy and You Know It_

"Simmons? Simmons?"

His eyelids felt very heavy. Opening his eyes did not seem like a good idea. Was this how Grif felt every day?

"Dude, wake up."

"Wha-?"

His cheek hurt. Well, everything hurt. But there was a sharp pain in his cheek right now.

"What are the numbers in pi?"

Simmons groaned but managed to open his eyes into slits. His mind was a mess, it hurt and everything seemed out of reach, but that was a question he could focus on. He had practiced the answer far too many times in his youth to forget it now. "Three point one four-" The words came out a bit slurred but he was a hundred percent sure the answer was correct.

"Yeah, you're fine."

Grif's face came into view. It took some seconds before he recognized him: the lightning was poor and dust was clinging to the already dark skin.

"Holy shit," Simmons muttered as they realized they were both actually alive. Not that he was going to complaining or anything, but that idea had been crazy to begin with and the odds usually weren't in their favor.

Now when Simmons had uttered some comprehendible sentences, Grif allowed himself to fall back to rest on his behind. He ran a hand across his face and suddenly winched.

Simmons turned his head to see the source of light: a small flashlight that illuminated their faces but not much else. No light came from the entrance of the shaft, and Simmons realized it had been blocked entirely by the explosion. Oh well. At least the pirate could not follow them now, if they had even survived the chain explosion in the first place.

"Where did you find that?" Simmons asked, nodding towards the flashlight.

"Stumbled upon it. Literally. Couldn't see shit and then I stepped on this fucker and – well, if I wasn't bruised before this certainly did the trick."

Now when the hand was no longer hiding the view, Simmons could indeed see the aftermath of the fall. The bruise he had earned from the guard had now taken a colorful shade but the new injury seemed to be the dried blood near his temple. "You-"

"M'fine." Grif waved him off. "The elevator cage took most of the fall. You're the one who's… well…" He trailed off with a shrug.

Simmons frowned. "What?"

Grif's eyes widened and Simmons felt his stomach drop. Whenever the Hawaiian actually revealed his surprise in his expression, things were usually pretty bad. "You don't…? Shit. Okay, just don't freak out 'cause I'm not in the mood to handle that right now." Then he adjusted the flashlight so it was pointing at Simmons' left shoulder.

"Oh my god."

His first instinct was to jerk back but he could not really move. Which was understandable given the situation. It was a wonder he had not noticed before but he had never really attempted to move from his position.

"I told you not to freak out!"

" _Oh my god_ ," Simmons gasped again. It was like his brain could no full comprehend the sight. "Is that my-"

"Metal arm," Grif finished for him with a stern voice. "So it's okay. I mean, it looks like your head got bumped but you're already up and bitching so it can't be that bad."

Simmons finally realized that his _left_ arm, thank god, was horrible stuck between the big rocks. Only the top of the arm near his elbow was visible – the rest seemed to have disappeared between the boulders. Simmons tried to move his fingers. He could not see or feel if he succeeded. "I, uh… _Fuck_." He put his right palm against the top rock in a vague attempt to push it away. It did not move the slightest.

Grif let out a loud sigh but then moved over to press his shoulder against the rock, slamming his entire weight against it. He was panting after a few seconds and the boulder did not budge.

"Put some work in it, fatass," Simmons hissed. He was trying to keep the panic down but the sheer idea of being trapped in one place was making him almost claustrophobic.

"I don't have Caboose's stupid super strength," Grif gasped between the pants. "What do you want me to do? Fucking Hulk Smash it?"

"Can't you… just tilt it or something?"

"Dude, this thing is not moving." Grif stepped away from the boulders, hands on his knees as he leaned forward in attempt to calm down his breathing. "Didn't really matter anyway. Your arm's got to be flat as a pancake now. Fuck, I just made myself hungry."

"But that's… That's my arm," Simmons said as if that would somehow make the situation unreal.

"Yeah. This sucks. Now what am I going to use as a backscratcher?"

"You…" The air got stuck in Simmons' throat. When he finally managed to exhale slowly through his nose, he was glaring daggers at Grif. " _You used my arm as a backscratcher_?!"

Grif shrugged. "Only when you weren't using it."

"That's it!" Simmons declared. He could not pounce on Grif now when his arm was stuck. The orange idiot better count himself lucky. "We're _never_ sharing room again."

Grif actually looked slightly hurt or at least annoyed with the way his brows furrowed. "Hey, I was gentle with it. You're the one who got it stuck under a rock."

"It's my arm, Grif – not just a _thing_." Simmons hated that he had to explain this fact.

"Well, it's still stuck under a fucking rock," Grif replied with another shrug. He sat down again, next to Simmons, using the boulders to lean his back against. "It could have been worse."

" _How?!"_

"It could have been your other arm," Grif replied calmly, nodding towards Simmons' right and flesh arm. "Or it could have been _my_ arm. At least you can take it. If I was the one in your place it would have been _127 Hours_ all over. Movie really screwed up my love for lemonade. Now I can't look it at without thinking of – _Yuck_." He had to cut himself off with a grimace.

Simmons fell quiet after that as he came to the surprisingly realization that Grif was right. If an arm had to be stuck, fate had chosen the right arm. It did not really hurt Simmons or anything – he was just hopelessly stuck.

Grif had already begun to pull away the cracked armor pieces near the cyborg's shoulder, trying to get to the metal limbs itself.

"It's my arm. We can't just leave it here," Simmons said as he watched him work.

Grif turned his head to stare at him. "Well, I can't just leave _you_ here." He then proceeded to rip the under suit away, until the area where the skin met the metal was revealed. When Sarge had added the cyborg parts he had made the arm capable of removal. It was mostly for maintenance. Simmons never took it off that often but it happened in case he needed to clean or fix adjust the gears.

Simmons bit his lip and tried to find any other solution. Eventually he sighed and helped Grif uncover the panel. "Push the button to the left."

"Right."

Grif began to work and only a second afterwards Simmons had to comment dryly, "That's not the left one, you dumbass."

"Oh, I thought of _my_ left. My bad," Grif grunted and struggled to reach the right places with his short and thick fingers.

Simmons hesitated for a moment but then the smirk crept onto his face and he added smugly, "That still wouldn't have been your left."

Grif exhaled. "Oh. Then I was thinking of _your_ le-"

"Just push the button already."

It felt weird when he was finally able to stand up, his arm slipping out of its housing with a hiss, but it was strangely relieving. Simmons lifted his shoulders, trying to ease his tense muscles, but then he looked down and saw the unnerving sight of his own crushed arm. For a moment he almost felt nauseous, but then he remembered he had no nerves in that limb. Still, he found himself gulping loudly.

"It's not that bad."

Simmons spun around to stare at him, sputtering, "It _is_ , Grif _! I'm lacking a hand_!" Of course Grey could make a new robot limb later but that still would not help him now. Besides, he had grown quite attached to this original cyborg arm that Sarge had made him. It felt wrong to leave it behind like this.

Rolling his eyes, Grif faked a somber voice, "The tragedy! Now you can't give yourself a high five! Where else are you going to get your daily round of confidence then?!"

Still glaring darkly at him, Simmons slowly leaned down to pick up the flashlight. It felt strange knowing he only had one hand to work with. "So what do we do now?"

"I don't know," Grif replied honestly. "I came up with the last plan and it worked. It's your turn now."

"Well." Simmons pointed the flashlight towards the ruined entrance. "We could try to dig our way out. But the pirates said Locus and Felix were heading towards here…"

Grif grimaced. "Yeah, I'd rather avoid our catch-up with the assholes."

"We could walk the tunnel," Simmons suggested and turned around to face the darkness. The flashlight was not strong enough to illuminate more than a couple of meters in front of them. He felt Grif move to stand next to him.

"Where does it go?"

"Well, if my theory is correct then they've been trying to connect Chorus' various mines and underground tunnels. It's like building their own secrets roads. That's why Carolina and Wash haven't been able to track them the last couple of weeks."

Grif tilted his head. "So… where does it go?" he asked again.

"Where the fuck should I know?! It leads away from here. That's something."

They both remained where they were standing, staring in the darkness. No one really looked like they were going to move. Now when none of them were talking, the closed space became dead quiet.

"Do you think there are bats in there?" Grif suddenly asked. The fear in his voice was just obvious.

"Bats do often reside in mines."

"Well," Grif said, "fuck this shit." He took a step backwards, inching back towards the dented elevator cage.

"Grif!" Simmons tried to reach out after him, right hand still holding the flashlight. His plan was to grab Grif's arm to drag him with him, but for a moment he forgot his own sudden inability when it came to his hands. Suddenly aware of his lack of arm, he paused for just a moment before hissing, "C'mon! We can't stay here!"

"You just said there were bats! I'm not going anywhere near bats!" Grif actually looked pale, despite the lack of light in general.

Simmons would have put his hands on his hips, had he been able to do so. "It's either bats or psycho mercenaries."

Grif paused.

" _That is not a question that needs consideration, Grif_!"

The orange armored soldier let out a pathetic whimper as he kept staring into the darkened tunnel. He took another step backwards – and promptly fell to the ground. "Ow."

"What did you trip over this time?" Simmons came over to him, not to offer a hand since he had none available at the moment, but the shine the flashlight at where he had fallen.

The flashlight revealed a rifle.

"Fuck yes, that's the one I stole from the asshole!" Grif exclaimed in excitement and immediately picked it up. "Took his ammo as well."

"That's… surprisingly well-thought of you."

"Well, they were in the same pocket where he kept my cigarettes," Grif explained as he reloaded. He seemed more relaxed now when he knew he could shoot the bats.

Simmons had actually had the secret hope that giving up his cigarettes would be the end of Grif's smoking but… Well, today had not really been Simmons' day. "Really, Grif?"

"Let's see if we can find your pistol somewhere." Grif deflected the comment and after around two minutes of searching he knocked away a smaller stone to reveal a now slightly scratched pistol.

He picked it up and offered it to Simmons, only to realize he was already holding the flashlight. "Uhm…" After a bit of maneuvering, it ended up with Grif in charge of the flashlight with the rifle on his back and Simmons holding onto the pistol.

"You can still shoot, right?"

Simmons nodded. He still felt strangely vulnerable and reloading would be problematic but he could still pull the trigger.

"Great, then you deal with the bats."

"Shut up about the bats, Grif!"

They slowly began their journey into the darkness. When the orange soldier hesitated Simmons took the first step and eventually Grif followed. Every time a sound would echo, either a small stone falling or, well, it _could_ be bats, he would either let out a whimper or spin around, waving the flashlight around like a weapon.

"It doesn't hurt, does it?" he suddenly asked, a few minutes afterwards when his breathing had grown somewhat steady.

"My arm?" Simmons asked. Grif may have nodded in the darkness but the flashlight was not strong enough to reveal their faces. "I mean, it feels weird but… No, it doesn't hurt."

"Good." They walked in silence for a while until Grif began to hum, "If you're happy and you know it clap your-"

"I fucking hate you."

* * *

"How the _fuck_ could this have happened?!" Felix snarled and kicked the remaining corner of a crate that had been lost in the explosion.

One of the few pirates that had survived the ordeal raised his hand, just about to answer.

Felix turned his head sharply and hissed, "That was _not_ an invitation for you to talk." The pirate lowered his glance in shame. "Go brush away the ashes of your friends or something."

When the pirate disappeared, Felix turned towards Locus who staring silently at the scorched camp site. "Can you believe this? I leave them in charge of two morons, and not only do they lose the idiots, oh no, they lose the loot as well! And most of them their life, too, but if they can't handle a couple of nobodies, we didn't need them in the first place."

"Clearly," Locus said slowly, "these nobodies were smarter than anticipated."

"You don't get to lecture me. You were not the one stuck with those idiots. I had to endure _constant_ blabbering. When I get my hands on them, I'm going to cut off their fucking tongues if they as much-"

"They would not benefit our plan of making use of the hostages," Locus cut him off. "If they survived the explosion, the only exit is to the north, near the Cenest Post. You-" He turned his stare on one of the pirate they had brought with them when they had followed to original plan to pick up the hostages here, "bring two other men and cut them off before they can exit the mine. Search it through. If they're dead, report it in. If they still live, bring them to Cenest. Understood?"

"Yessir."

Felix was still pacing back and forth. "My time is too precious to be spent on those two morons. I have to teach Tucker a lesson about trying to make a fool out of me, and if our assholes were not so fucking useless we could be luring Tucker and his Freelancer friends right where we want them _right now_."

In order to unleash his anger, he once again kicked some blackened remains of the camp.

However, as the piece bounced down the gravel, spinning around before coming to a rest, it was revealed to be a very charred, once maroon helmet. The one the pirate had fiddled with earlier, unbeknownst to the mercenaries.

As the helmet settled, it let out a static before playing the recording, loud and clear, " _…make sure they're not filming."_

" _It's not… It's not turned on. Look, there's no need to do that."_

" _Dude, don't piss them off."_

Felix tilted his head. "Huh." The recording kept playing as he picked up helmet, rolling it from hand to hand. "Now this is something that can be worked with."

* * *

A/N: These chapters are a bit shorter than I usually post but in order to keep a certain pace, it felt right to end it here. Plus I just saved you all from the cliffhanger. Next time we'll also get to see what the rest of the reds and blues have been dealing with in the meantime.

Thank you for all the support! Every kudos and bookmark and comment makes me smile! Thanks for reading, hope you have a great day!


	5. The Bat, the Man and the Bad Man

**Offer Me Your Hand  
** _The Bat, the Man and the Bad Man_

Kimball sighed as she finished the call. "The latest reports from the scouts say they've found nothing. No trace of the pirates and-" She finally turned away from the screen so she was looking at the Reds and Blues (and Doc) she was delivering the news to. "No trace of Simmons and Grif either."

The soldiers took a second to take this in. Then Sarge huffed, "So, you are saying _'acceptable casualties'_."

"But Sarge," Donut immediately whined. "Simmons is in charge of this week's attempt of hacking the Blues' private journals for more intel!"

At that comment Wash turned his head sharply. "What was that?"

"Dagnabbit," the Red leader grumbled loudly before slamming his palms together. "Well, seems like we have a rescue mission on our hands. That's what I've always said; no man gets left behind. Except Grif."

"Are we sure they're not just making out in the jungle somewhere?" Tucker suggested with a shrug. When everyone else turned their heads towards him he had to explain further. "I'm just saying that's a possibility big enough for me to put some money on it."

"Isn't the forest floor a bit too unsanitary for Simmons' taste?" Doc said carefully with a raised hand. The others took some time to think about this before they had to nod.

"That's true." Tucker shifted the weight from one foot to another. "Well, shit. They're in trouble, aren't they?"

The mission had actually been a success; they had managed to ambush the outpost. While most of the pirates had managed to get away and simply disappear, much to the Freelancers' growing frustration, they had only managed to bring a small part of the supplies with them. The rest of it had been secured and the Chorus soldiers had been celebrating the success – until Jensen pointed out that no one seemed to be able to get in contact with two of their Captains.

Church chose now was the time to appear on Carolina's shoulder. He had been working on the problem quietly so far but like the scouts they had sent into the jungle, the solution had still not been found. "Well, either the idiots turned off their helmets themselves… Or someone else did it. It's the same pain in the ass; they can't be tracked."

"We should join the search party," Carolina said quietly but sternly.

At this suggestion Caboose seemed to get excited. He turned his head rapidly and asked no one in particular, "Can I be the one hiding? Or will I have to seek? I like hiding better."

"This isn't hide and seek, Caboose." Tucker had to sigh before adding, "Also, turning your helmet around doesn't count as hiding. We can still see you even if you can't see shit."

"It's time for some good old man tracking!" Donut, of course, exclaimed. "I volunteer."

"They can't be that hard to find." Before anyone could object, Tucker explained himself, "I mean, they never shut up."

"True." Sarge let go of his shotgun with one hand to put a finger on the chin-area of his helmet. "We could also try to lure them out. Shouldn't be a problem with Grif; someone talk about cake. Actually, just think about cake. I'm sure he'll know." He then let out a low growl as he was reminded of Grif's incompetence at anything else but tracking down cake.

Doc, trying to bring back the happy mood, took a step towards the middle of the meeting room. "We'll have to stumble across them sooner or later."

"That isn't the problem." When Carolina spoke, her voice low with wariness, all the helmets turned towards her to give her the attention. She lifted her head as she put words on the situation, "We have to find them first."

"First?" Tucker repeated and his voice revealed a frown. "What do you-"

"Ah, crap."

When the AI swore he became the center of the room. Carolina turned her head to stare at the program on her shoulder. "Epsilon?"

Church sighed before he replied, "Incoming recording sent from Simmons' helmet. Ah, that fuckface." He then groaned, having scanned through the contents by himself.

"That wasn't nice," Doc scolded in a gentle voice, believing the AI had been using the insult on Simmons.

Church sighed again. "You're not going to like it, by the way." He sent the recording to the room's computer, the volume meter showing up on the screen. Turning his head to stare at Carolina, he told her, "Also, you totally jinxed it."

Then the recording began.

" _Service announcement from the lost and found office."_

The entire room seemed to stiffen at the sound of Felix' smug voice.

"Fuck," Tucker exclaimed lowly, saying everyone's thoughts out loud.

" _It seems like you may have forgotten something in the jungle. Something maroon and yellow perhaps? Hmmm?"_

"Actually he's orange," Donut managed to point out before he was shushed down by everyone else in the room.

" _Luckily for you, we decided to keep them safe for you."_

The purple medic began to fiddle his thumbs. "That doesn't sound too good."

" _Now, I know you won't trust_ my _words. Not that I can blame you for that. So let's hear their thoughts on the situation."_

There was a bit of shuffling, as if the recorder was being moved around. Then Grif's voice appeared, a bit muffled as if he was in the background of the scene.

" _Is this the point where you say you're gonna break us? 'cause if this is torture session you should start it now or else I'm gonna take the time to nap. I'm exhausted."_

" _Shut. Up,"_ an unknown voice growled, presumably a guard.

More shuffling could be heard, and the soldiers in the meeting room moved closer to the screen.

" _Look, there's no need to do that."_ Simmons' voice was thin, stretched to the edge with worry.

Felix' voice cut in again, louder and clearer than the prisoners' in the background. _"You might want to clarify a bit, Simmons. Just to let everyone know what_ exactly _is going on right now."_

" _They're gonna break it,"_ Simmons muttered thickly and so quietly it could barely be heard.

It was followed by a sharp gasp of pain from Grif.

The entire room shifted in discomfort as they imagined what had been going on. Stick and stones may break your bones but Felix seemed to let the guards do the dirty work.

"Yeah, that doesn't sound good," Caboose muttered sadly.

Felix spoke directly to the recorder again. _"But let's talk business. I am not a particular fan of listening to these idiots bicker all day. Kind of nerve-wrecking, actually. Almost makes you lose your temper."_ There was a certain tone to his words that did not calm anyone. _"But I suppose you've learned to live with it by now. So here's the deal; come meet with us at Outpost Cenest. If you don't know the location, I wouldn't worry. I'm sure some of your Rebels have memories of shooting down Feds there. If not, ask your Feds if they have any memories of losing teammates that were stationed there."_

"Just rub it in, asshole," Tucker muttered, crossing his arms. They were all aware of how much pain the mercenaries had caused on this planet and being reminded of it did not help.

" _Let's say tomorrow at 10am? Of course you can decide not to show up; it's not really your problem after all. But I can guarantee you; someone, and I can easily give the names, is gonna pay for it if you don't. We'll discuss the conditions there, and believe me when I say that we're going to set the ground rules."_

Doc glanced around at everyone but all seemed to have fallen awfully quiet, even the Freelancers. "Are we going through with this?"

" _One small thing; I wouldn't try anything if I were you. Unless you don't really care about which shape you'll be seeing your teammates in when we return them to you. That is_ if _we return them. Don't tempt us. I'll see you tomorrow, gentlemen. Maybe."_

Then the recording ended and the room was left in silence as they all tried to process this.

It was Tucker who broke the silence by saying what everyone was thinking,"I fucking hate him."

* * *

"Grif!"

"No!"

"Stop hiding!" Simmons shrieked, looking down at his teammate who was cowering behind a big rock. Seeing that Grif was the one with the flashlight it did not make it easier to find him and Simmons was tired of stumbling all the time.

Grif let out another pathetic whine, covering his face with his arms. "That was definitely a bat!"

"No. No, it wasn't. That was a stone falling from ceiling. Just like it was the other _five fucking times_."

Grif whimpered again and did not leave his hiding spot.

Considering whether to leave his teammate behind but realizing he needed the flashlight, Simmons sighed and kneeled down in front of him. "Grif, we have to move."

"We don't have to do anything!" Grif looked up to stare at him, flashlight revealing his narrowed eyes. "We don't even know where the tunnel goes! _Here_ can be just as good as _there_ wherever the fuck _there_ is!"

"You're not even making sense!" the cyborg exclaimed. He would have begun to haul Grif up from the ground had he not been using his only hand to hold the pistol.

Grif spat at him, "Well, excuse me, but that's what batphobia does to you!"

"It's called chiroptophobia, if you want to use it as an excuse," Simmons replied dryly. Calming himself down, which seemed to be an impossible task given the circumstances, he took in a deep breath. "Let's be logical."

"I hate it when you say that," Grif muttered tiredly and let his forehead rest against his arms again.

"There is no good reason to fear bats." Simmons kept his voice levelled, as if consoling a child. "They can't harm you. I mean, they may carry rabies but we're wearing armor."

The last comment caused Grif to inhale sharply. "That just leaves the face for them to scratch." Even with the lack of proper light, Simmons could see how the Hawaiian looked absolutely terrified.

"What do you have against bats?" he then asked, realizing he had never received an answer to that question.

"Have you ever had a rat in your house?" When Simmons shook his head, Grif continued darkly, "Well, good for you then. Fucker scared the shit out of Kai and messed up the entire place before we could chase it out. Now imagine that nightmare with wings. _Bats_." He shuddered again.

"Then wouldn't it be great to get the fuck out of here?" Simmons suggested with a voice filled with fake cheerfulness. "Instead of staying in the tunnel where the bats live?!"

Grif considered this moment and then came to conclusion, "This sucks."

"Like you have the right to say that," Simmons snorted bitterly and looked down at where his left arm was supposed to be. "Ah, fuck, this is bad."

"C'mon. Grey is going to make you a new arm. I can't believe you haven't tossed your old one out ages ago. I mean, Sarge made it. From whatever shit we had lying around in Red Base. You will literally go from some madman's creation to… well, she's also a madman but at least she's a genius. Maybe your new arm will have lasers. Ooh, or a bottle opener. That would be cool."

"Why would that even-" Simmons cut himself off sharply and looked away. "I don't want to discuss that with you. This is going to be the toaster argument all over."

"I'm just saying, instead of paper being spat out from your fax ass, imagine toasts being-"

"Shut. Up."

Finally Grif began to stand up. He kept turning his head around to look for any bats but after the final reassurances and curses from Simmons, they could start walking.

It did not last for long, however, and around five minutes later Grif dropped to the ground again.

"Fuck it. I need a break." He crawled towards a boulder he could lean against and let himself fall into a comfortable positon

When he opened his eyes to see Simmons hovering above him, flashlight shining at the cyborg's face, revealing he was just about to open his mouth, Grif held up a hand to stop him.

"No, Simmons. This has been the worst day ever. I had to drive all the way here, then we had to fucking walk 'cause sneakiness and whatever, then we got ambushed, we had to walk _again_ , I got hit in the face, the whole fucking place exploded, we fell into a mine filled with bats and, guess what, we have to walk again!" He let the back of his head slam smack against the boulder, groaning. "Ugh, I just want to be back in my bed already. It's calling for me. I can hear it."

"At least you can sleep in your bed. Mine is all sticky." Simmons froze when he realized just what he had said and quickly added, "From the soda. That you spilled everywhere."

"Wow. You're so lucky Tucker isn't here right now." Since the argument about their trashed room was not something he wanted to have brought up again, Grif closed his eyes as if preparing himself to nap.

When Simmons realized what was happening, he said, "No, Grif."

"C'mon, Simmons. Just five minutes."

"Just… Can't you wait till we get out of here? I have a really bad feeling about this..."

Before the cyborg could protest, Grif reached up to grab his elbow and drag him down with him. "It's not bats, right? You'd say if you saw any bats. I know you're sore as well, nerd. And you can't say we haven't earned the break."

Simmons hesitated but could not deny how much his own bruised body hurt. Not to talk about all the blisters on his foot. "Five minutes," he finally said and leaned against the tunnel wall. "And I'm counting," he added. Even without their helmets, his cyborg eye still let him know what the time was.

Too bad it could not give him their coordinates.

They sat in silence. Simmons realized in surprise how his own eyelids felt extremely heavy. Was that how Grif felt all the time?

Simmons' chin had just touched his chest plate when an unknown voice sounded in the distance, "This is a waste of time."

The cyborg's eyes snapped open, his entire body freezing in shock. By instinct he crawled backwards until he was sitting next to Grif, their backs pressed against the boulder, hoping it could work as cover. The Hawaiian seemed to have realized the situation as well, turning off the flashlight and staying quiet even when they were huddled so closely together that their shoulders touched.

The rough voice continued, getting louder and louder the closer the intruders got to them, "I'm setting the bet now; all we're gonna find is some bloody smears under the rocks." Their footsteps could be heard now.

"Well, bosses want their armor if they're dead. Gonna use them for leverage or something."

Grif and Simmons held their breaths and by some fucking miracle, the pirates walked right past the boulder, continuing into the mine.

They could see the dried blood and soot on the back of their boots.

"But they're bound to be all smashed. All bloody and filled with guts."

"Yuck. Don't give me those images."

The voices slowly died out the further they walked away from them.

Seeing that this was their chance to get away, both Grif and Simmons crouched and slowly maneuvered in the direction the pirates had come from. Grif never turned on the flashlight again but it wasn't necessary since they were finally reaching the end of the tunnel and natural sunlight could illuminate their path.

Simmons was even able to see the frown on Grif's face now. He wondered if that was how he looked on all his missions. At least Grif was an expert when it came to stealth; even with his weight he managed to stay completely silent as they finally escaped the mine.

Once they were outside they halted for a moment, staring at each other. In the evening sun they could finally see their battered faces; the growing bruise on Grif's cheek, the dried blood on Simmons' forehead, all the scrapes they both had suffered and the dust that clung to their sweaty skin.

Simmons lowered his voice into a desperate whisper, "Okay, here's the plan; _let's get the fuck out of here!_ "

* * *

A/N: I am so sorry for the late update. I guess I can blame the Bingo for getting my two weeks behind schedule (but Red Team won so it was worth it), but the truth is I have totally been postponing this chapter. The reason is fairly simple; the first part of this chapter included all the kinds of dialogue that I struggle to write; big group conversations where everyone should say something but we still need to keep the overall conversation going _and_ fucking Felix dialogue. I don't write him often so I am kinda rusty when it comes to Felix.

 _But_ the chapter is here now, and I hope you enjoyed! Thank you for all the support so far, it means a lot!


	6. Camp? Camp

**Offer Me Your Hand  
** _Camp? Camp._

They walked in silence.

That was the most unnerving part of it all. Even when the pirates had been forcing them forward, the guns pointed at their backs and a threat ready if they as much as stumbled, Grif would occasionally complain and Simmons would occasionally hiss for him to shut up.

On the somewhat normal days where they were not walking next to pirates who were ready to shoot their heads off, they would bicker. Constantly. It would be discussions about life's great mysteries, about the best superpowers with a twist, about Sarge's latest crazy strategy, about life in general, about how much the other person sucked and so on and so on.

They would bitch, a lot, but usually with a good reason. And while their bickering included a lot of insults it would never turn into an actual argument. Well, except that one big argument. Usually their tone would never turn hurtful but that time Simmons had had enough.

But now they were both quiet.

Simmons' foot was sore. For a moment he felt so grateful for his cyborg leg. For numerous reasons, of course, since not only did it make him capable of walking, it also freed him from blisters.

His torso felt bruised too, even the parts he knew did not have skin. And his head was still killing him; both the head wound with dried blood staining it, and the growing headache caused by their situation.

He was so tired. _Exhausted_. He wondered if this was how Grif felt all the time. If that was the case, then he pitied the orange soldier.

Grif seemed no better off than Simmons felt. He was dragging his feet along the forest floor, almost tripping himself, and he was hunched over as if about to drop down at any second. However, when Simmons looked at his expression it remained neutral with a bit of exhaustion staining it.

Only once did Grif speak and that was to ask Simmons where they were going.

And Simmons did not have a clear answer. When they had left the mine they had heard another voice nearby; a faint silhouette of another pirate next to a jeep, and in fear of more enemies hanging around, they had decided to sneak away instead of trying to take them on.

With no sense of direction and no idea of where the tunnel had led them, Simmons had tried to go the path he believed was heading north. But it was hard to see with the tall jungle trees blocking the sky, and the sun was already beginning to set in the distance, and it was getting darker before Simmons was ready for it.

He wondered how long they had both been out after the explosion. The entire day had almost passed – and it had been filled to the brim with action and unfortunate events. The others had to have noticed they were missing by now. They must have sent out search teams. If they could just stumble upon one of them, they could be saved.

Grif seemed too tired to complain, which was perhaps the most unnerving part of it all.

Only once did he express his exhaustion fully. At some point Simmons just noticed that Grif was no longer walking next to him. When Simmons turned around he found Grif on the forest floor, lying on his back.

"Fuck this," Grif muttered before rolling onto his side, as if preparing to take a nap.

Simmons had seen him in this position enough times to know where this was going. "Grif, get up." Out of pure habit he proceeded to do what Sarge had taught him; kick Grif's side to put emphasis to his point.

Grif curled up slightly with a low whine, and Simmons suddenly felt bad. He probably should not have done that. It hurt his foot anyway, and Grif seemed to be just as bruised and Simmons felt.

He was just so tired, and they could not stay here.

But the kick worked and Grif got to his feet, muttering some curses under his breath but never confronted Simmons directly.

The next time Grif spoke was when they could faintly see the outline of a building. The darkness of the night had embraced them by that point but when they first noticed it, they could not tear their eyes away. "Fucking finally," Grif muttered, shaking the flashlight again since it kept flickering out.

"We should check if there are any enemies around," Simmons muttered since he did not have his hopes high enough to believe something good was happening.

"Sure," Grif snorted. "Go ahead and do that."

"Why me?! You're the one with two hands!"

"You only need one finger to pull the trigger!"

"That's not how it works," Simmons huffed. That seemed to be the end of the argument, and together, very slowly, they walked closer to the building with their weapons raised.

When they finally came close enough to see the actual state of the building, they both halted.

"Yeah, I don't think anyone is living here," Grif said. It was pretty obvious this place had barely survived an attack; numerous bullet holes, and a piece of the wall and the roof was missing. It was in a sorry state but it was still standing which was somewhat impressive.

Simmons entered through the door while Grif stepped over some debris and went in through the smashed wall. No one was there. The night was quiet around them – the only sounds seemed to come from Chorus' wildlife and the two soldiers flinched every time they thought someone was coming.

"This… was a locker room?" Simmons asked, gesturing towards the numerous lockers that filled the intact wall.

"No beds," Grif grunted sadly. "Of course."

Unable to strap his pistol to his thigh with only one hand, Simmons put it on the dusted metal floor. He began to tear the open the locker doors to search for supplies. Grif's flashlight was still flickering helplessly behind him. "Try to find some branches for a campfire," Simmons ordered while picking up what he prayed was a medkit.

Grif groaned at the thought. "Why do I have to-"

"You have two arms to carry with!" Simmons reminded him sharply. Grif sighed but began to walk towards the hole with heavy steps. Frowning, Simmons called out to him, "Just… remember to bring your rifle. We don't know who could be close by."

"Good to know you're keeping up the positive thoughts," Grif muttered sarcastically. He slammed the flashlight against the wall, and managed to make the light somewhat steady before walking the small distance it would take the reach the trees surrounding this old base.

Simmons convinced himself that Grif could not possible get killed that quickly. A couple of lockers later, when Simmons found some very old MRE's in the corner, he knew he at least had something to comfort Grif with when he returned.

* * *

"So what is this place?" Grif asked with his mouth full.

Even with the campfire burning in front of them, Grif had been too impatient to wait for his MRE to get warm and had nearly emptied it by now, less than a minute after they had sat down.

It had taken Simmons some time to convince himself that the fire was a good idea; the smoke and vague light could reveal their position but… They needed the light and the warmth. They were tired and hungry, and the thought of staying in a cold dark building did not provide them the comfort they needed right now. The campfire was a good idea, Simmons decided when he felt the warmth slowly seep into his sore bones. At least Grif now had a good reason for why he had stolen back his lighter.

Simmons had put his MRE on a rock close to the fire, hoping the heat would help on the taste a bit. He had unfortunately checked the expiry date, something he now wished he hadn't, and he doubted this was going to be a good meal. But he was hungry, oh so hungry, and Grif was soon finished with his MRE, meaning he would soon attempt to steal Simmons'…

The cyborg decided the taste could probably not get any better, and used his finger to dig out lumps of _something_ covered in some kind of gravy. The hunger helped; it tasted more like nothing instead of the meal actually tasting bad. Simmons chewed with a stubborn jaw motion until he was finally able to swallow. "Looks like a part of an old Fed base. Must have taken some hard hits during the war."

"As long as the rest of the roof doesn't fall on top of us, I'm satisfied," Grif said and licked some gravy off his finger. "We have any more of those?"

"Just one," Simmons said and fished it out from the locker. "You can have it. I think it's rotten anyways."

Grif reached for it. "I'm not picky."

"Oh, I know."

They fell quiet after that. Grif was quickly finished his second meal while Simmons reluctantly ate the rest of his own. It was edible after all – he had tried worse in Blood Gulch. Here at Chorus they would sometimes get freshly made meals, though MRE's were still circling around.

When Simmons put away the empty package, and before picking up one of the cans of water he had found as well. It tasted stale but helped on the dry throat. He quickly sent his pistol a glance. He had put it close to the fire, within reach, just in case. He truly hoped the source of light would not give them away. At least not to the enemy. For a brief moment Simmons let himself imagine how wonderful it would be if their friends could spot them because of this…

"You think the others are looking for us?" Grif asked in-between bites, as if reading Simmons' thoughts. The Hawaiian's expresson revealed a trace of a frown.

"By 'others' do you the pirates or our friends? Because I think they're all looking for us."

"Not if they think we died in the mine," Grif suggested. "Just another amazing aspect of my clever plan, thank you very much."

Simmons snorted weakly. "As if we're that lucky. And your plan, by the way, cost me my arm."

"You'll like the new one much better anyway. Ask Sarge to install a flashlight in this one. Imagine how practical that would be."

"Or we could just count on not being trapped in a mine again."

Grif had finished his package and threw it into the corner. "Pfft. That sounds boring."

"I imagine that's the way you like it." Simmons grabbed the handle of the medkit and placed it in his lap, trying to figure out how to open it with one hand.

"Explosions-free days are the best," Grif said with a shrug. "Makes it easier to nap." He then ripped off his gloves to warm his hands near the fire. They were still wearing the rest of their armor since they doubted they would be granted peace and quiet for long. When he noticed how the cyborg was struggling, he asked, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What do you think I am doing?" Simmons hissed back, trying to hold the medkit still with his thighs and prying it open with his hand.

Grif tilted his head. "Well, I doubt they have hidden cookies in there." Simmons did not answer but continued the work that only seemed to result in broken nails. "Alright, gimme," Grif ordered with a sigh and took over. Less than two seconds later he had pried the clasps open.

"Thanks," Simmons muttered quietly when the kit was shoved into his lap again. There was not much left in it, and it had obviousy been used before. But he found what he needed; some antiseptic wipes and gauze.

"Ah, shit." Grif was staring at him from the other side of the campfire. "Not those things. They sting."

"Well, they also prevent infection so suck it up."

To Simmons' surprise Grif was the one who scooted over to sit next to him. "You first," he demanded. "In case they are too old or some shit. I don't want my face even more messed up."

Simmons did not argue but managed to wetten a piece of gauze with the canned water. He used it to clean his face, removing most of the dust. He grimaced when he ran it over his own scapes.

When Grif reached out to wipe them, Simmons froze.

The warm light of the campfire illuminated the Hawaiian's focused expression. His eyes were looking at Simmons' forehead, making sure he got the job right.

Simmons could not help but winch when the antiseptics were applied with the wipes but Grif's movements were as gentle as they could be. For some reason Simmons imagined the Hawaiian taking care of Kai's scraped knees when they were younger, tending every sore and cut with practised hands.

"What?" Grif huffed, and Simmons realized he had been staring directly at his face. Heat began to rise to his cheeks and by instinct he wanted to pull his head backwards but Grif was still keeping a firm hold of his chin.

"Nothing."

"Fine," he grumbled. "But if you have a concussion you deal with that yourself." As the last scrape was taking care of, Grif taped a piece of gauze to his temple that had received the most damage when he had been knocked out.

"I don't," Simmons said firmly; he had been watching out for the symptoms carefully and so far he just had an understandable headache.

"Anywhere else?"

Simmons blinked. "What?"

Grif rolled his eyes. "Anywhere else you want me to kiss better?"

" _No_. And don't put it like that." Honestly, he felt like a bruised peach but he knew the armor had taken most of the damage. He accepted the medkit when it was handed to him and he looked up to send Grif a glance. "You?"

"Nah. Sore ribs but I've had worse after Wash' training drills." He quickly splashed some water in his face to get rid of the dirt, and darkened water drops rolled down his throat.

Simmons needed Grif's help to prepare the swipe but then the Hawaiian stiffened as he readied himself for the treatment. With his one hand Simmons prepared to reach out. The pirate's punch had left an ugly swelling on the cheekbone and small drops of blood was tickling from it again now when Grif had rubbed it.

He was still staring at the spot, wondering how long it would take before the blue and purple color would appear, when Grif suddenly asked with a low voice, "So… Are we still pissed at each other?"

Simmons blinked and pulled his hand back. "What?"

Grif shrugged with his eyes fixated on the locker behind Simmons. "Just thought it would be good to know."

"Well…" Simmons was still holding up a hand but kept it a certain distance from Grif's face. "You haven't apologoized yet. But…"

As if the last word had gone unheard, Grif cut in, "Who says I need to apologize? You could just skip the bullshit and be grateful."

Simmons almost dropped the swipe. "G- _grateful_? What the fuck should be grateful for?! You _know_ you've been such an _ass_ the last couple of weeks."

"Like you haven't been uptight as fuck," Grif gave back. "You snapped at _Jensen_ of all people!"

"That happens when you're in a warzone, Grif! It gets a little hard to relax!" Simmons clenched his teeth as he recalled how Grif had refused to leave him alone. How he thrown insults at him and left behind trash and laundry and how he had poked him and messed with his monitor and all the stuff that seemed to be driving the cyborg crazy. "So you thought – what? It would help if you became my pain in the ass?!"

Grif looked like he was about to say something but then his mouth closed.

As more of more memories of Grif's laziness and snarkiness crept up on Simmons, he forgot how comforting the mood just had been. Instead he gave into his angry rant. "And did you think I would thank you when messed up our room?! I still haven't managed to clean it up all, you know! I _told_ to keep your side of the room clean! That did not mean you could throw your trash at _my_ side! And I _warned_ you not to drink soda in the bed, and _why were you even in my bed in the first place_?! If you want trash a bed, trash your own. It's already disgusting."

Grif was still silent and Simmons even gave him the chance to speak up for himself.

When he did not, Simmons looked at the fire and scowled. His voicer was lower but more bitter when he said, "You made it feel like we were back in Blood Gulch…"

"Is that so bad?" Grif asked.

Simmons looked up again surprise. " _Yes_! We-" He cut himself off, searching for the right words. Had they hated each other back then? Despised each other? Their relationship had been colder, at least, and Simmons remembered the jokes he had used back then, the insults he had thrown at Grif. Things had been different, even if it was hard to put words on it. "…you know," he finally said, "back then. Besides, you hated Blood Gulch."

"Well, you are the one who said you missed Blood Gulch," Grif muttered and poked the fire with a stick in an angry motion.

"That… That was just because things were different back then," Simmons said and raised his shoulders as if to protect himself. "No crazy mercenaries or backstabbing. I… didn't really fear to get shot every day back then." He blinked before clearing his throat. "But that doesn't mean I want my bed trashed again. It was bad enough the first time," he said and recalled the night back in Blood Gulch where Grif had pulled the same stunt and Simmons had walked into their room to find every inch covered in trash. He had never managed to get the stains of the floor…

"At least you took it better that time," Grif muttered sourly and still refused to look up.

"No, I didn't! I screamed at you for hours!"

"Yeah," Grif agreed. His head tilted upwards a bit to meet Simmons' eyes just the slightest. "And then you crawled into my bed."

Simmons waved him off. "That was just because it was too cold to sleep on the floor. Besides you were the one who offered. Don't tell me you did all this just to get me in your bed again." He snorted at the thought.

And then he froze, dread crawling up his spine until he could not move. With widened eyes and a dropped jaw he stared at Grif who was still poking the flames.

Grif shrugged. "Seemed like the easiest way to get your attention." He let out a short bitter laugh. "You always pick up the trash I throw."

Simmons blinked. He tried to speak but his mouth felt very dry. Instead he swallowed and blinked agan.

There wasn't… This whole thing was stupid. There was no way annoying Simmons would have worked, like some school boy pulling a girl's braid. While Grif might been there to steal Simmons' focus whenever his brain began to overheat with worry, it did not count as flirting… Not that Grif would ever flirt in the first place because they would never… And this was…

And the only reason Simmons had even joined him in bed back then was because it was cold and Grif was always warm and it had been Grif who had suggested it and…

Grif was an idiot but he should have known to talk about it instead… But then again, when did they ever really talk about stuff?

Simmons was still too busy finding the right words or just completing a though to notice when Grif apparently lost his patience.

"Whatever," Grif said and backed away so he could lie down next to the fire. "Didn't work anyway."

Simmons had dropped the antiseptic wipe and now he was staring at it, inhaling the smoke from the fire. "D-do you-?"

"No," Grif said and rolled onto his side to sleep.

Simmons, realizing he did not want to talk about it either, did not know why he had even tried to ask the question in the first place.

With a burning throat and a tired mind, Simmons lay down next to the fire as well. Lying on his back he followed the trail of smoke as it travelled upwards, away from the fire, through the broken ceiling and up towards the stars that were shining so calmly in the distance.

* * *

A/N: And the grimmons begins (kinda)! This chapter was calm and nice but it won't last. The action will pick up again from the next chapter, so things are getting excited!

Season 15 is feeding me grimmons angst and I love it. So much inspiration.

IMPORTANT! The incredible Creatrixanimi on tubmlr made art for the last chapter and it is absolutely amazing! Check it out here: post/160354370037/heres-a-doodle-of-a-scene-from-riathedreamer-s . They make so much amazing rvb art so please check out their other drawings as well! You won't be disappointed!


	7. Running Out (of Time? Air? Luck?)

**Offer Me Your Hand  
** _Running Out (of Time? Air? Luck?)_

Tucker had just been fetching another cup of coffee when he found Donut in the hallway. It did not surprise him to see the Red awake – he doubted that anyone from Red Team was sleeping well tonight. Wash had told him to go get some sleep while he, Carolina and Kimball discussed contingency plans for tomorrow.

He had left after a bit of protesting but honestly all the options seemed to be shitty right now, so taking a break from it all was the only way to fight his headache.

Kimball had called back the search teams after Felix' message. They could not risk more people getting captured by the pirates, and it would require a bigger team and some good strategy to even _attempt_ to free them – something they were not ready for now, at all. That is if Kimball even went with the rescue option instead of bargaining.

Donut was fiddling his thumbs. "When I had hoped for them to be alone in the woods I did not imagine this."

Tucker rubbed the back of his neck. "This sucks."

"At least they have each other," Donut said with a sad, small smile.

Tucker did not have the guts to tell him that might just complicate the situation. Felix had observed Grif and Simmons; he knew how they worked and he was definitely going to use it as a weakness. It was quite easy to create pain when you had a pair like that. Tucker shook his head to get out of the dark thoughts.

"Yeah…"

"They always manage to end up in strange positions," Donut continued. "It's almost fascinating to observe."

Tucker was still considering whether or not to drop a Bow-Chicka-Bow-Wow when Wash came running down the hall. Freezing at the sight, Tucker immediately asked in caution, "What? Did Felix send another message to gloat?"

The Freelancer halted in front of them. There was a big frown on his face but it was hard to tell whether that meant good or bad news. "No, it's… Epsilon found something. You should come hear it yourselves."

Tucker and Donut shared a glance, and then together they ran to the meeting room.

* * *

Grif could not sleep which meant the situation was shitty as fuck.

Of course he pretended to be asleep since everything was better than speaking with Simmons at the moment. He even managed to ignore the constant urge to roll over in order to find a better position; if he remained absolutely still then he looked like he was asleep and no one would be cruel enough to disturb a sleeping person.

Simmons was sleeping as well. Maybe. It was hard to tell since his cyborg lungs always kept his breathing steady, except when a panic attack happened and he would literally malfunction. Maybe Simmons was sleeping. Maybe he was not. The point still was that he was not trying to start a conversation which was absolutely fucking great.

The few times Grif actually dozed off, he would awaken not too long afterwards. Even though he had no way of telling time, he knew these naps were short and restless. The sky remained dark above them. At some point there small campfire died out but no one stood up to find more branches. Maybe Simmons was really asleep. Or maybe he just did not want to risk going outside the shelter again.

Grif certainly did not find the strength to get up. Not until the sky began to turn orange and the craving for a smoke became too strong.

He pushed himself up with a groan, and one of his hands immediately went to his sore ribs. It felt like he had spent all yesterday sparring with Wash. Or a pissed of Carolina. Or the fucking Hulk.

Simmons sat up the moment Grif began to walk out of the shelter. "What are you-"

"Taking a piss," Grif replied quickly. "And a smoke."

"Don't go-"

"I _know_ , Simmons." He kicked some rubble away from the floor on his way out. "I'm not that stupid." Of course he was not planning to go far. First of all that required walking which was something his sore legs did not agree on. Yesterday he had spent his quota of walking for the next three years. Plus he was not eager to venture into new territory just yet. He was not that big an idiot. Even if Simmons believed he was.

He brought his rifle with him, just in case, but the moment he stepped outside the shelter, he froze.

The darkness had hidden the other building right next to them. Grif frowned and gripped his weapon tighter. It was in a better shape and bigger than the shelter they had been sleeping in.

Carefully, Grif walked around the corner and then another, until he was at the other side of the building. It was then he realized he was standing in the center of an outpost. It consisted of numerous buildings in different sizes, and it seemed like the further you came from the center, the worse they had been hit during the attack.

The door was open to the building Grif was standing next to and he quickly slipped inside. It was empty which fit well with the silence.

He blinked when he realized the building had bathroom stalls. Well, that was convenient.

After making sure no one was hiding behind the lockers, Grif quickly did his business. Beat doing it outside. He was still traumatized by the time Matthews had thought it was taking too long and that his Captain definitely was in trouble. It had ended with the Matthews jumping through the thicket, startling Grif who was still, well, taking a piss, and Matthews, being the kissass he was, had still not learned when not to compliment someone.

Because it was sure as hell awkward to praise your Captain's dong. True, Matthews had never finished his sentence, but had just begun the usual "Impressive…" before realizing that conversation was over before it had even begun.

Bitters had teased the private mercilessly until Grif grew tired of being reminded of the accident and ordered him to shut up.

Grif finished his business and corrected his armor. This place was creepy as fuck. Empty and quiet bases had been something he hated ever since…

Well, nothing should be this quiet.

Something shiny caught his attention and he walked over to one of the open lockers. The shiny metal belonged to a dog tag. Well, not _a_ dog tag. A bunch of them. At least twenty. Grif's hand hovered above them for a moment before he reached out and picked one up.

 _Canton, Hyde  
Federal Army of Chorus_

Grif had just realized he was standing with a bunch of dogtags belonging to dead Feds, when someone entered the building.

With a soundless " _Shit_ " under his breath, Grif reacted by instinct and backed himself into one of the lockers, slowly closing its door in order for it not to make a sound. If Simmons saw him in that position he would have made fun of him. Told him that now he was going to be stuck there forever. Or he would be questioning how Grif even managed to squeeze in there in the first place, considering his… mass.

But Grif had been on enough stealth missions to know what he was capable of.

The two guards had their own business to take care of, and they chose their own urinal. They talked while making sure they did not look at each other.

"Man, the bosses are _pissed_."

"Well, search teams only have five hours to prove themselves useful. Can't be that fucking hard. Only two morons."

"Those two morons did manage to blow up outpost B. Killed a handful guys."

"Too bad for them; that's an embarrassing way to go out."

There were vents in the locker, allowing Grif to look, but for now he was just standing as still as possible.

"So what are they gonna do if they don't find them?"

"Bluff, I guess. We don't even know if they're gonna show."

"You think they're going to say no? Seems pretty cold to me. Not that I'm complaining; that means we get to kill them once we find them, right?"

"I guess we-"

When they had begun to talk about killing, Grif had involuntary inched backwards, as if seeking comfort in the back of the small space, but by doing so he accidently shook it – and so caused the row of lockers next to him to tremble as well.

Grif closed his eyes and flinched when he heard the sound of what had to be dog tags falling from the shelf down to the floor.

The conversation ended abruptly.

He held his breath as he heard one of the assholes slowly walking towards his hiding spot.

The guard said nothing as he suddenly tore the locker open.

Luckily for Grif it was the locker right next to him. He had basically halted his breathing when he could hear the guard let out a huff and close the door again.

"What?" the other guard asked from the end of the room. "Did ya think somebody was peeping on us? This ain't the ladies' room. No one wants to see your penis."

"Haha. You know, Phil found a skeleton in the locker the other day."

"What the fuck was it doing in a locker?"

"Probably last year's winner of hide-and-seek."

They both let out a loud laughter that faded away as they left the building.

Grif waited for half a minute before squeezing himself out of the locker.

Well, oh fucking shit crap.

He had to get back to Simmons and then they had to get the fuck out of here.

Grif stepped outside and realized they were truly not alone. Now when he was aware of the fact that this place was inhabited, he could spot some movement here and there. Not a lot, since most had to be stuck on those search patrols, the bastards, but there were definitely some guards at the entrance of the main building. It was the biggest building, the one most intact, in the center of the area, and Grif made a mental note never to go near it. It would obviously be the place for the "bosses" to hang out which meant Grif had no good reason to visit it.

He had just begun to sneak back to Simmons when he noticed the jeep in the distance.

* * *

Simmons was definitely not panicking.

Of course Grif had been gone for an awful lot of time.

Taking a piss never took that long (and if it did it was time for Grif to get a checkup at Doctor Grey) but Grif had also mentioned he wanted to smoke for a bit.

But at least ten minutes had passed, and now Simmons was pacing back and forth.

He should just go out there and find Grif.

But… Grif probably deserved some time alone. It would be weird if Simmons disturbed him. Right?

And Simmons should not make things more weird than they already were.

So now he was just tripping impatiently, waiting for Grif to return, fighting the urge to go look.

Then Grif was suddenly inside (when did he become so quiet?) and his face was contorted into something Simmons had never really seen before and he would not mind never seeing the expression again. It looked like a too deep frown, but there were traces of panic in his face as well, and his eyes were widened in something that could be fear.

Simmons felt his stomach turn into ice then make a flip before turning into a knot instead.

"Yeah, okay, shit." Grif sounded breathless. "So, uhm, they're here."

"Wha-what?" Simmons stuttered. "Who?"

"Fucking Santa and his helpers," he sneered back sarcastically and kept looking over his shoulder. "The army of assholes lives here."

" _Here_?" Simmons repeated and slowly put the pieces back together. When he had waited for Grif he had noticed the other building right in front of them but he had thought it would just be another ruin. But now he understood, and he muttered in horror, "The Cenest Post…"

"Also, I think we just slept in the girls' bathroom," Grif said, looking around at the lockers with great interest.

Simmons inhaled sharply, fighting back a panic attack. "We shouldn't be here."

"Relax, no one is going to call you a pervert."

"No, I mean _here_. This base." Simmons began to turn his head rapidly, fearing an ambush. "We have to get the fuck away from here."

"Oh. Right."

Simmons would have grabbed Grif's arm and dragged him outside but he was already using his hand to keep a tight grip on the gun.

The moment they stepped out through the broken wall they both crouched just to be safe. Simmons could hardly believe they had not been discovered during the night but he supposed the other building had shielded the amount of light that had escaped from their little camp fire through the holes in the wall.

By instinct he turned towards the jungle, wanting to disappear the same way they had come from.

"Wait," Grif said and reached out to grab his shoulder, halting him. "I have a better idea."

"What? Do you want to blow up this place? _Again_?" he snorted, his anxiety causing him to become sarcastic.

"Is that an option?" Grif smirked for a moment before his face fell serious. "Just, follow me."

They snuck past the two buildings, keeping close to the wall. They were now looking at the big courtyard and Simmons was fighting the urge to run in the opposite direction.

"Look," Grif said and began to point. "There are two main roads leading out of here. There's that one right next to the main building – where Locus and Felix are probably stuffing themselves, so fuck that plan. And then there's that road."

It was closer to them than the other. Jungle and cliff wall surrounded the base but here the trees died out, leaving a clear path for the vehicles. Simmons also noted the building right next to where the road began.

"Why don't we just use the jungle? You know, where they can't fucking spot us!"

"Because they're still looking for us. And they're sending out more men by the minute. The jungle has to be crawling with them by now. We'll never make it all the way back."

That was a pretty fair point. This was enemy territory which meant they had spent all yesterday walking in the wrong direction… Simmons cursed himself for not bringing a compass. "So what do you suggest? Walk down the road because that won't be obvious as fuck?"

"We steal a jeep."

"We steal a…? _Have you lost your mind_?!"

"So I did some reconnaissance-"

"You did _what_?!" While Simmons knew Grif's team was in charge of the infiltration missions, he had not even expected the other soldier to know such a long word. And he truly had not expected Grif to go on such a dangerous mission without even informing Simmons…

Grif rolled his eyes and pointed at the building near the road. "That's the garage. They have three jeeps in there right now." He paused before revealing, "…and two guys."

"Well, shit." They could probably take them out but doing that without revealing their presence to the rest of the base would be difficult.

Grif led them to the garage, staying behind cover where they could, and then one long sprint where even Grif seemed to force himself to run as fast as possible.

When they were leaning against the wall of the garage, Grif was the one who peeked inside. He returned some seconds later. "Okay, so there's a guy inside working on one of the jeeps. Pretty occupied. Then there's a mean-looking guy pacing out in front with a rifle."

"Okay. Great. I think. Uhm…" Simmons bit his lip.

Luckily Grif was the one who suggested it. "You deal with the mechanic." He then paused, looking at where Simmons' left arm was supposed to be, and added another whisper, "I you can _hand_ le it."

"I can club someone with one hand, Grif," Simmons told him sternly to defend his pride.

Grif just shrugged and began to move down the wall so he could take care of the guard outside. Before disappearing around the corner, he sent Simmons once last glance which the cyborg answered with a nod.

Simmons stepped inside the garage through the open door and immediately froze.

"So when's Phil coming back?"

The answer came through a radio; some static sounded before the slightly muffled voice replied, _"He's still out. Want them to keep an eye on the road to report if they're going to show up."_

"You think they will?"

" _They don't really got much of a choice, do they?"_

Simmons held his breath as he slowly advanced on the crouched mechanic. He was not even wearing a helmet. If he could hit him hard enough with the pistol he could at least daze him before kicking him unconscious. Or something. Simmons figured his panicked thoughts would deal with the violence once it began.

"Depends. The guys might be big douchebags. You think they are really going to offer so much for-"

Simmons was right behind him when the machinist suddenly froze. He let go of the walkie-talkie to look over his shoulder instead. "What, you finally done shooting that rabbit? Took you long enough-"

His eyes widened when he realized this was not his friend and Simmons' eyes were just as big – widened in fear. He brought his hand down to club the guy but he was too late.

The pirate pounced on him, slamming into his stomach so the air was forced out of his lungs. Simmons accidently loosened his grip on his pistol and it sailed through the air before sliding down the floor.

But he was not the only one who saw it land and the pirate immediately lunged for it. Simmons reacted quickly; reaching up to grab his elbow and forced him back down.

It was then Simmons remembered he did not have his other arm to work with; he could not attempt to punch to the pirate while holding him down or even just push himself up from the ground.

The panic hit him immediately; it was like losing the limb all over again.

Simmons' body jerked as it tried to get up. He tightened his grip on the pirate, hoping to be pulled up with him as he straightened out his back but the guy had other plans.

With his free arm he lashed out and hit Simmons across the face. It hurt enough to make him let go but Simmons was still conscious enough to kick with his metal leg, causing the pirate to fall over before he could attempt to go for the gun.

"You fuck," the pirate growled and was suddenly upon him again.

Simmons must have made it personal, at least he thought so, as the pirate's fingers tightened around his throat. He squirmed under the grip, trying to hit him with his one hand. But it was not enough and he needed his metal hand to push him away, crush his wrist or something. He needed it but he only had his stupid flesh hand and it was never enough, no matter how many times he scratched the skin and lashed out-

Suddenly he could breathe again and he gasped loudly. He remained on the ground, staring at the ceiling while clutching his sore throat with his hand.

When his vision finally cleared Simmons turned his head to see Grif kick the now unconscious pirate who was bleeding from a slash across the forehead.

Grif was breathing in deeply, holding his rifle. There was blood dripping from its butt.

"You okay?" he asked, turning around to look down at Simmons.

The cyborg nodded wordlessly, still trying to get his lungs to stop burning. He coughed a bit before trying with an actual word. "Ye-yeah." He inhaled again before adding, "Thanks."

Grif placed the rifle on his back. "Need a hand?" he asked, offering the help he needed to get off the ground.

Simmons let him pull him up but muttered sourly, "That's not funny."

"Wasn't a joke."

The first thing he did was to pick up his gun, clutching it so tightly his knuckles went white under the gloves. "Let's get out of here," Simmons said with a shudder, trying to shake off the fact that he had almost died. Almost. Grif had saved him.

Grif was already heading for the jeep when Simmons suddenly regretted his own words. "Wait. We should make sure they can't follow. Slash the tires or something."

That almost caused Grif to snort; it would take something very sharp to cut through the tires, and they did not exactly have Tucker around with his glowing sword. "Right. Why don't you give them one of your ' _updates_ '?" He used his fingers to create quotations marks as he spoke the word out loud, almost unable to hide a grin.

Simmons actually let out an offended huff, raising his shoulders into a defensive position. "Theoretically it should have worked."

"Yell, well, you still got banned from the garage for weeks. You broke _three_ jeeps."

"It must have been the wrong wire or something," Simmons muttered under his breath, cheeks growing red from embarrassment. He truly had tried to improve the vehicles… too bad they would not start after he had worked on them. Lopez was still sending him sour glances.

"Seriously," Grif said, picking up a pair of pliers from a nearby table. "Give them an upgrade."

He threw the tool at him, forgetting that Simmons had no way of catching it. It clanked loudly against the floor, causing both of them to flinch. The whole point of this was to destroy the vehicles as silently as possible. "Oops."

Simmons narrowed his eyes at him before strapping the pistol at his thigh so he could pick up the pliers and begin his work. "Dumbass."

Grif kept watch while Simmons opened the panel and began to mess with the wires. He coughed again but his throat was starting to feel better. "…So the other guy?"

"Took care of him too. Mass give you an advantage and all that," Grif replied with a shrug.

"Oh."

"Had a grenade on him. Figured it could come in handy."

Simmons allowed himself to smile for a second. "You really want to blow up this place, don't you?"

Grif lifted his chin in defiance. "I'm not becoming Sarge if that is what you think."

He needed another minute but then he could proudly exclaim, "Done!" He paused before climbing out of the car. "I mean, it should work. Or, well _not_ work. This should have worked so the jeep does not work-"

"Simmons, I get it."

He had just climbed into the next jeep when the walkie-talkie called out again. Simmons recognized the voice.

" _Dude, are you forgetting about me or what?"_

Simmons looked at Grif. "Don't answer it."

"Nooo. I would have asked them if we should order a pizza!"

The cyborg almost dropped the plier when it flared alive again. _"Seriously. Sign of life or I'm calling the alarm."_

Grif shifted awkwardly, looking back at Simmons who was frowning. "Okay, maybe we should answer it."

"Do it then!"

" _Me_?! No. I- I'm busy! Do it yourself."

Despite the claim of being busy, Simmons halted his work to look at Grif with widened eyes as he leaned down to pick up the walkie-talkie. Grif cleared his throat, trying to make his voice deep before calling back, "Just taking a piss, dude. Relax."

There was a moment of silence as they awaited the response.

" _You're so dead_."

"Well, shit!" Grif said and threw the walkie-talkie across the room. Their attempt had obviously failed, but Grif had tried. His voice just did not match up. "Okay, time to leave."

"I am not done yet!" Simmons yelped. He only had one hand and there were a lot of wires… "It isn't easy!"

They heard shouting in the distance, and both ducked by instinct. "Fuuu _uuu_ ck," Grif said and considered the situation for some moments. Then he placed his rifle on his back and jumped into the jeep he had picked for himself. "Simmons, c'mon!"

"But it isn't-"

Grif held up the grenade, cutting him off. "We use this. Now hurry the fuck up and get your ass in here."

Simmons let out a worried sound but did as he was told. Grif shoved the grenade in his lap so he had his hands free to adjust the wheel. "Here."

"Wait, I don't want to do it – I only have one hand!" Simmons stuttered. He looked over his shoulder, through the opened door and saw multiple armored figures running towards the building. And there was something among them, a flash of a bright orange color…

"Just throw it!" Grif barked but waited to step on the gas until the grenade was in the air.

Someone was shooting at them, bullet ricocheting against the metal wall next to the garage door. Grif ducked, leaning across the steering wheel, but Simmons rose in his seat to aim and then threw the grenade towards the remaining jeep. The explosion did not matter now – they had already been discovered.

Grif forced the jeep forward and Simmons gripped the edge of his seat as the sudden speed made his stomach jump.

He turned his head to look over his shoulder just in time to see Felix bursting into the garage with his weapon raised – and then the jeep exploded, causing him to leap to the side.

Grif wasted no time getting them out of there, and now they were rushing down the road, leaving a long cloud of dust behind the jeep.

Simmons forced himself to lean back in his seat and breathe in deeply.

"Don't puke," Grif warned him, eyes briefly leaving the road to glance at him.

"I'm not," he muttered and placed his hand in his lap. "But… _Shit_."

"I know." Sighing loudly, Grif let go of the wheel with one hand to run it through his hair. "I'm demanding three weeks of vacation once we get home."

Simmons snorted. "I doubt Kimball will let you have that."

"Well, we just had Felix chasing our asses. I think we deserve some time off after this."

Exhaling slowly, Simmons closed his eyes. "Yeah…"

They could feel the tension slowly leaving the longer they drove.

Some minutes afterwards Grif even fished a cigarette and his lighter out of his armor pocket, letting the cigarette hang in the corner of his mouth while keeping one hand on the steering wheel. His expression softened. His face was still bruised and covered with dust, but that worried frown that had caused Simmons' stomach to turn into a knot was now gone.

Simmons considered complaining about the smoking but he feared that would lead to another argument. Yesterday's talk had been bad enough and Simmons feared messing up further. Once they were home, back in safety, he could try to ask about it further… Or he could just leave Grif be. The Hawaiian would probably bring the subject up when he felt like talking about it. Probably.

Their conversations today had been carried by the adrenalin but now everything was so quiet and Simmons did not dare to break the silence.

Grif seemed like he had everything under control; in fact he even seemed like he was enjoying himself. But he had always been comfortable behind a wheel.

Simmons leaned his head back and closed his eyes, allowing himself to just _rest_ for a moment. He had barely slept in their little shelter; some weird gnawing feeling in his stomach had kept him awake.

He let himself drift off for a minute.

Then he opened his eyes, staring at the sky above, grey clouds passing by very quickly.

Eventually he straightened himself up in his seat, deciding that he might as well help Grif with the directions. Grif sent him a glance when he moved but said nothing.

Simmons scanned their surroundings. There was no chance of Grif heading in the wrong direction since the road only lead forward; out of the canyon towards the open field in the distance. From there Simmons would probably be able to navigate them back towards a familiar area.

He noticed the glimmer of metal from the corner of his eye.

The pirate had talked about people watching the roads – that was right, Simmons had almost forgotten that detail. Until now. Now his mind was working perfectly fine.

Simmons blamed all the memory exercises he did as a kid in order to remember 57 numbers of pi. His mind could remember details. And right now his mind brought him back to the moment before all the shit started, just before, when they had been gathering with the orders in the clearing to receive orders, and the Lieutenants had been asking Wash how to take out a jeep. And Wash had answered:

" _If you want to stop a vehicle, aim for the driver."_

Simmons' cyborg heart skipped a beat and then he flung himself across the seat.

"GRIF!"

* * *

A/N: I will try to update as quickly as possible but I am fighting a grave battle against exams right now.


	8. Crash

**Offer Me Your Hand  
** _Crash_

Simmons woke up with a splitting headache. He wondered how much alcohol Grif had brought to the movie night yesterday. It must have been some strong liquor, some of the stuff you could find under Tucker's bed.

But this was a bad case of hangover – he felt nauseous and he was pretty sure his skull was falling apart.

Grif was still sleeping. It did not surprise Simmons to see him with his eyes closed. Last time they really had gotten this drunk he had been passed out for almost an entire day.

Simmons blinked. It was weird that Grif was sleeping with his helmet on… Even weirder that the helmet was bright red instead of orange…

And then the cyborg lunged forward in his seat, breathing in deeply, as if breaking the water surface. The world kept spinning, and Simmons truly wanted to throw up, bile rising in his throat. Especially when realized the red on Grif's face was not a helmet but blood.

It took a while before the fog cleared from his head, and by that point Simmons was already halfway into Grif's lap, hand fumbling over his armor as he searched for any holes caused by bullets. But the only blood was on his face and Simmons used his thumb to wipe it away but it kept streaming from what luckily turned out to be a gash on the left side of his forehead.

Simmons guessed it was caused by slamming his face against the steering wheel but that honestly was a small injury compared to what could have happened. They had crashed. The entire front and left side of the Warthog had turned into crumbled metal.

Blinking again, Simmons remembered grabbing the wheel in the process of shielding Grif. Things were a bit fuzzy from there but apparently that had hit the cliff wall. Smoke was rising from the battered front of the car, probably the engine complaining about the harsh treatment. Simmons hoped it would not blow up. That would be pretty bad. Especially when they were both in the car.

He grabbed the side of the Warthog to steady himself. He wished Grif's gash would stop bleeding but head wounds were supposed to do that right? He quickly looked down at himself, searching for any trace of blood but only found it on his hand that had been used to touch Grif.

His head still felt like it was about to split open and his ribs were throbbing but apparently the bullet had missed. Simmons felt like laughing but the noise would not really leave his mouth.

"Grif?" he finally said, reaching out with his one hand to shake his shoulder. "Grif."

But he remained out cold, chin resting against his chest plate. Simmons leaned back in his own seat, trying to figure out what to do from here. They had survived a sniper plus a crash so that meant things were going in the right direction. Probably. Simmons shook his head to clear his thoughts but only managed to make himself more dizzy.

He suddenly turned his head sharply, looking at the cliff edge where he had spotted the sniper earlier. Time had become a blurry notion and Simmons was not sure if an hour or a few minutes had passed since that almost heart-attack. But right now the edge was empty but that did not really calm his nerves. If the pirate was on his way down here…

" _Grif_." His voice was more urgent this time, shaking him as hard as he could with one arm. "Wake the fuck up," Simmons hissed, constantly looking over his shoulder to see if anyone was sneaking up on them. But Grif's head lolled around limply which did not soothe Simmons' growing panic.

"You do not get to sleep through the work this time," Simmons told him sternly, getting his arm under his armpit in an attempt to pull him upwards. "I am not going to carry you, you fat fuck," he said, tone breaking slightly, but the insults did not work and Grif stayed unconscious.

Simmons sighed, knowing this was not going to be easy. For a moment he considered slapping him but that green splotch from where the pirate had hit him earlier made him freeze. Hoping his back would not give out, he slung Grif's arm over his shoulder and wrapped his own around his torso, trying to pull him up from the seat.

Groaning under the weight, Simmons tried his best to get them both out of the jeep, but was quickly halted when Grif's left foot turned out to be stuck. Simmons dropped him in the driver seat again, trying to get a look on the damage.

Some of the vehicle's side had been crushed inwards when it hit the cliff, causing a metal plate to be folded over Grif's left foot – Simmons' foot, technically. He looked at it like it had offended him deeply, like if it had said that chess sucked or something even worse. "Come on," he hissed, bowing down to try to force it away. "We don't have time for this."

But lifting anything was hard with only one hand, and Grif's body kept getting in the way, and the metal just did not want to budge, and the smoke was making Simmons' eyes sting and he felt his breathing grow quicker and quicker with each failed attempt.

They could not stay here. It was just a matter of time before the enemy would arrive, even with backup. Simmons should get help could he not get Grif out of here, but that meant leaving him behind and… Simmons kept kicking.

At some point Grif was close to falling at out of the seat and Simmons had to catch him, cringing when he realized the position was bending Grif's leg in a manner that would put too much pressure on the bone. He shoved him back in the seat, the panic causing his movements to be a bit harsher than intended, and stared at the trapped foot again.

This was the part of the movie where they would resolve with cutting off the limb, right? Too bad Tucker was not here with his sword. But… Maybe it could be shot off? That had been done once in some zombie movie, right?

Simmons shook his head again. The blood loss would obviously not help either of them. Bad idea. Obviously.

The urge to just reach out and pull the foot free was overwhelming and each time Simmons was sadly reminded that he only had one arm to work with. His other arm was in some stupid mine buried under some stupid rocks because Grif had been stupid enough to –

They needed to get out of here – fast. Simmons began to kick the metal. "Stupid piece of shit," he hissed with a hitch in his breath. For each kick he repeated the words. "Stupid." Kick. "Piece." Kick. "Ow," he finally said, fighting the urge to cradle his now sore toes.

Simmons froze.

The amount of space was limited within the wrecked Warthog, and Grif's limp form sprawled out like a sedated fat cat did not help the slightest, but Simmons managed to shift the weight on his feet and began kicking again – this time with his cyborg foot.

He could not help but _eep_ in joy when the metal finally began to budge. "Take that," Simmons said, well-knowing Grif would have snorted had he been awake. He had kicked it a few more times when he noticed movement from the corner of his eyes – unfortunately it was not coming from Grif.

"Oh shit," he said, breathing speeding up again. Deciding to test if the kicking had given him some inches to work with, he draped Grif's arm over his shoulder again and began to pull. They had to get out of here _now_ and Grif was not helping by being a limp body, basically lying on Simmons' back.

Simmons just hoped it would not give out under the weight.

He actually managed to get Grif halfway out of his seat this time when the foot got caught on the metal again. Simmons barely had the time to curse before the gun clicked behind him.

He gulped deeply, tightened his grip around Grif's torso and looked over his shoulder to see the pirate pointing at him with a pistol. The sniper rifle was on his back, and his head was tilted in a pleased manner. "Found you."

Simmons tried to come up with a clever remark but failed ultimately. His knees were shaking slightly, not from fear but from the strain of his stance. He tried to lift Grif's torso and readjust into a more secure position but immediately he sensed the pirate move behind him.

"…Are you two hugging?"

" _No_ ," Simmons replied by instinct, even adding a snort. It was obvious they were not hugging or anything like that. Simmons was just trying to keep Grif from breaking his leg – something that would happen if Simmons just dropped him here and there. He inched forward, attempting to at least get Grif back in his seat but the enemy did not seem please with that movement as he waved his gun again. Simmons froze.

"Get out here, arms - _arm_ raised."

"I, uhm…" Simmons looked at the pirate again before turning his head to focus on Grif's orange armor. The familiar color was somewhat comforting, and Simmons settled with tightened his hold on him. His pistol was still strapped to his thigh but with only one hand to carry Grif and with the enemy standing right behind them it did not seem like the first and best choice.

That earned him an inpatient huff from the pirate. "Y'know, we only need one of you. Don't make me go eenie, meenie, miney, moe."

Catch a tiger by the toe, Simmons finished in his mind and bitterly thought about Grif's armor color and his trapped foot.

He was still trying to collect his thoughts when the shot rang out. With his left ear ringing, Simmons dropped to his knees in shock. Grif's body jolted; Simmons froze in horror when he thought he had been shot but he could then feel somewhat relieved when he realized it was just a reaction from having his leg bent this way. The fact that it could mean he was waking up did not soothe Simmons as much as it should – maybe it was best to just sleep through this, especially if it ended badly.

But the pirate had just shot the Warthog to prove his point. He really disliked that jeep, huh. Maybe if he shot it enough times the jeep would retaliate and explode. Which would not be good news for Grif and Simmons either, but at least it would be a quick way to go. And a cool one at that. Explosions had always been a Red Team thing.

And compared to being brought to Felix it was probably the least painful solution. Nothing good could happen from being brought back to the mercenaries; not to Grif and Simmons, and not to the others who would be given terrible demands.

The sniper had apparently grown impatient since a firm hand grabbed his shoulder with the intention of tearing him completely out of the Warthog. With his headache bigger than ever Simmons made his choice. While still trying to find his cool comeback – his last words could not be lame – he adjusted the weight of Grif's body on his shoulder.

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me."

The hand pulled again, gripping his shoulder tight enough to hurt, and this time Simmons almost lost his balance. But before he could be forced out of the wrecked vehicle, the pistol went off twice.

Simmons was so surprised he almost dropped Grif and he was still trying to figure out what he did not feel any pain when he heard the pirate drop to the ground.

"What are we doing again?" Grif asked groggily, and Simmons had to stop himself from losing his grip on purpose.

His vision was still partly obscured since the upper half of Grif's torso was resting on his shoulder, but Simmons slowly connected the dots and came to the realization that Grif had quietly woken up and without anyone noticing, he had grabbed the pistol from Simmons' thigh and saved them both by shooting the pirate.

"No, seriously," Grif spoke again, voice still sounding tired, "what the fuck are _you_ doing?"

"I'm trying to keep your leg from breaking, fatass," Simmons groaned, suddenly too aware of how sore his body was. His arm was shaking at this point. Maybe it was from the ordeal, but Grif was, no matter what, not easy to be carrying like this.

"Well, good fucking job 'cause my leg fucking hurts."

Simmons finally had the freedom to step forward and drop Grif in his seat, perhaps a bit more harshly than he should. But hey, Grif had been sleeping the entre time Simmons had been under a death threat.

"Ow," Grif said flatly while staring at his trapped foot.

"It's not even broken," Simmons huffed and gave it a few more kicks. He hoped his hand would stop shaking as he grabbed the steering wheel to support himself but his body still felt incredibly unsteady.

Grif watched him work with a tilted head. "It's probably bent then. We don't all have metal legs, Simmons."

"Oh, shut up and be grateful."

Pressing a hand to his forehead, Grif winched when he saw how his fingers came back bloody. Simmons watched this from the corner of his eye while he continued to kick.

"Hey, Simmons, the Warthog is smoking."

"I know."

"…Did you drive it?"

Simmons froze while he was in the middle of using his hand to pry the foot free. "…No."

"You did!" Grif was blinking heavily, a blood of drop trickling down near the place on cheek where his dimple would show whenever Simmons cracked a joke funny enough. Grif frowned as he began to remember. "You fucking grabbed the wheel – what were you thinking? I've told you: _no backseat drivers_."

"There was a sniper, Grif! I saved your life!" He huffed before adding, "Now pull."

Grif did as he was told and finally his foot was freed. For a moment it looked like he was about to reach down and cradle the limb, but then he swayed a bit before reaching for the steering wheel for support. Like Simmons, movement caused his vision to swim a bit, and instead of the wheel he grabbed Simmons' arm.

Simmons wanted to reach out and steady him but he only had that one arm to work with.

"Well, we're still alive, so, uhm, great work I guess," Grif finally when he let go of the cyborg. He wrinkled his nose. "Wait, does smoke means this thing can blow up?"

"…Let's get out of here."

As Simmons offered his hand to help the limping Grif get out of the jeep, the other man froze while still having the wreck of a Warthog to lean on. "Simmons, you look like shit."

He felt like shit. His head was pounding, his torso felt like Carolina had used him like piñata, his right foot was still sore, and he was still missing an arm. But he was alive, and so was Grif who was looking at him tired eyes, surrounded by bruises and dried blood.

They both knew they could not make the rest of the journey by foot, and the sniper had probably called the other pirates, and the situation was literally shit, but there had to be shelter somewhere close. Or, at least, they could just focus on getting away from the jeep behind them. Just move forward a bit, despite the urge to just lie down and sleep. Simmons was actually ready to support Grif when he demanded vacation from Kimball.

But, well, first they had to get back home.

"It's been a long day," Simmons finally answered him. Then he let out a sigh so deep that his cyborg lungs came close to glitching.

Grif let out a bitter chuckle. "Yeah, tell me about it."

Then they wrapped an arm around each other's shoulder, slowly limping away, holding the other so tightly they were not sure which one of them was keeping the other upright.


	9. Replay

**Offer Me Your Hand  
** _Replay_

They played the recording once again, more slowly this time. "Do you hear it? There's an overlap," Carolina informed them. Her voice had a hoarse tone to it, revealing she had spent the entire night with Church to figure this out.

Tucker looked at Donut who seemed way more cheerful after the Freelancers had let them know if their discovery. But Donut had always been optimistic. Tucker on the other hand was not sure what to do with this. "Are we sure that's not just Simmons stuttering? 'cause he does that. A lot."

"Does Simmons make a slight screeching tone too?" Church asked him dryly.

Donut shrugged. "Depends on how badly Grif has him riled up. They can get noisy."

Church made the big screen in the room show the wave lengths as they ran the recording again. "Someone has messed with the noise file. And I'm putting my bets on Felix."

"What do you mean with 'messed'?"

"The overlap," Church said again, sounding more and more frustrated that they did not just follow his line of thoughts.

"It's two recordings of different origins," Wash explained helpfully.

Tucker crossed his arms. "So instead of planning a rescue, we've just tried to play DJ with a noise file?"

"Tucker-"

"The way you put it, they still have the files. Which means they still recorded Grif and Simmons going through _that_."

There was two seconds of silent but then Donut asked very quietly, "So why tamper with it?"

Carolina sighed softly, indicating it had been a long night. "Kimball drew back the searching teams because they kept running into patrols of pirates. At first we thought these were effort to keep us from getting too close but now… They could be searching teams as well."

"Wait, so Grif and Simmons escaped?" Donut asked, clasping his hands together in joy.

"And we've all been sitting on our ass while this was going on?" Tucker asked, letting his irritation show.

Church shut down the recording that had been playing at a slow speed in the background. "Let's say we are right about this; this was meant to serve as a distraction while they _actually_ managed to get a hold of the idiots. Then we still have a chance in this game of grab-a-Red."

Tucker looked at the time on his HUD. "Five hours until the meeting and we have to find a couple of oblivious idiots. Well shit. So what's the plan?"

"Gather the others," Carolina ordered them. "We'll send out everyone. We either manage to locate them or we track down enemy activity to see if they know more than us. And _if_ we are too late, we have to attend the meeting and see what Felix will present us with."

Tucker looked like he wanted to say something, but he let his hand fall and instead helped Donut wake up the others.

* * *

But when he was alone with Wash in the Warthog he could not help but bring it up.

"No sign of Grif and Simmons," Wash let him know after a radio call from their friends. "But a lot of pirate activity." He turned his head to stare at Tucker. "This is a good sign. They would not been searching had they already found them."

"Right." Behind his visor Tucker frowned. "But what if shit already happened? I doubt Felix and Locus are going to ask us for a nice simple favor. And Kimball has the whole freaking war to think of."

Wash sighed, tightening his grip on the wheel. "I guess we have to wait and take the situation from there. Hopefully we can avoid the bargain all together."

Tucker crossed his arms. "I'm just saying, Grif and Simmons stuck with them sucks. Bad. But if Felix was waving you or Caboose in front of my face, and Kimball has to tell them no, I don't really see any way that situation could turn out without someone getting punched in the face, you know." He looked at the road ahead, falling quiet.

"I understand," Wash finally said, voice soft. "Truly, Tucker."

"Just stupid worries, I guess," Tucker eventually said to break that weird, soft, caring mood that had suddenly appeared in the Warthog. "Nothing we can do about it. Except to hurry up and find the idiots and beat them up before Felix and Locus do it."

* * *

"So that was probably the jeep," Grif said flatly when they heard the explosion, dirt shaking before their feet. Simmons looked over his shoulder, despite the dizziness, and watched the black smoke rise. The distance between them and the wreck felt too small.

"Let's get a move on," Simmons finally said after swallowing hard. They both knew what this meant, even though no one had said it out loud. With that cloud of smoke they would be too easy to track down.

He gripped Grif tighter and urged him to move more quickly. But it did not take long before Grif began to curse under his breath every time he accidently put weight on his left leg, and Simmons could feel the guilt growing bigger for each time he caused Grif pain by pushing him forward.

When Grif's fingers dug so deeply into Simmons that it hurt, he knew it was just a question of time before Grif would become a dead weight that he was not able to carry.

So when Simmons finally saw that crack in the cliff wall he sighed in relief before steering Grif towards it. The amount of space was limited, just enough for them both to squeeze inside, and as they sat next to each other, their bodies were pretty much overlapping each other. It was very uncomfortable, especially with their sore limbs, but if it could somehow shield them from the search team that had probably been sent after them…

Simmons bit his lip. It would not take much skill to follow the set of footprints from the burning jeep to here… "Do you still have the pistol?" he asked Grif, only to discover the other man had fallen completely quiet, head resting against Simmons' shoulder. His eyes were closed. For a second he felt his stomach turn to ice before shaking his shoulder so that he was forced to wake up. "Grif."

"What?" Grif muttered groggily, blinking at Simmons with big eyes, one brown and one green. The blood had begun to dry but now splatter of it had been rubbed off on Simmons' armor.

"The pistol," Simmons repeated himself. "We should be prepared."

Grif rolled his eyes. "You really think that is going to help?" he asked, but found the weapon nonetheless. He did not seem to ready to fire though, since he merely ended up resting it in his lap.

Simmons swallowed again. "I… Probably not."

They both seemed to sigh in unison.

Simmons was trying to come up with some sort of plan – it ended with surrender, of course, but maybe they could surrender without getting beat up again, when he felt the weight of Grif's head against his shoulder again. He shook it again. "You can't nap now."

"Sure I can. Watch me."

But Simmons refused to let him nod off. "Stop. You could be concussed."

"You could be concussed," Grif grunted back, as if that could work as an insult.

He just nodded. "Exactly. We should both stay awake. We could… _should_ talk."

Grif drew his shoulder closer to his chin, curling slightly together. "I don't want to talk," he whined, but there was a certain heavier tone to his complaint that brought back the severity that made Simmons' stomach twist.

"I- Well-"

"Seriously, Simmons, just knock it off." Grif smacked the back of his head against the cave wall. "Let's just await our doom in silence."

Simmons tried to change his position but only truly managed to wriggle his toes a bit. His knees were already bent in an unpleasant position which could only feel even worse for Grif. His arm was resting on his torso which continued to throb each time he pulled a breath.

"Do you really think Felix is going to cut off our tongues?" Simmons asked quietly, mouth very dry. He remembered the guards telling that that threat whenever they failed to please them.

"I don't know. Guy's a creep. Probably has an ear collection or some shit. He'll probably pin our tongue to a wall. Or send them to the others. How the fuck should I know, I'm not a psychopath."

"We'd just have to learn sign language then," Simmons concluded and already began to wonder if Grey had the proper books to guide them.

"I already know that. See?" He then flipped him off. "The best sign."

Simmons felt the corners of his mouth moving upwards. When Grif closed his eyes again, Simmons nudged him awake. "How's your leg?"

"It's a bitch." He did not have the opportunity to stretch out his limb in the small shelter but at least he was not walking on it. "What about you?" Grif then asked with a shrug. "You still look like shit."

"It's… Probably not as bad as it could be. Considered all the explosions we have survived."

Grif looked up at him and grinned. It only lasted a few seconds; then his frown was back.

"Your gauze is loose." Grif reached out and reached for his forehead, gently pressing the piece back in place. It almost seemed silly, to care about that little detail, with all their new sores.

Simmons suddenly turned his head so his face was resting against Grif's palm and he used his one arm to wrap his hand around his wrist to keep it there. "I'm a jackass," he admitted thickly. "I should have… I should not have kicked you out. I just wished you had told me instead of, well, making a mess."

"Dude, since when do we talk about serious stuff?"

Simmons chuckled weakly and pulled his head back but kept his grip on Grif's wrist. "Well, what are we doing right now then?"

"You're being awkward, that's what we are doing." Grif wriggled his hand loose, but only so he could slide down and intertwine his fingers with Simmons'. "And dorky. And total sap."

Simmons squeezed his hand. "You have _the_ most horrible romantic gestures."

"Shut up, it worked, didn't it?"

"Well, only after we almost died. A handful of times." Simmons sighed again, knowing that their fate was unsure for now. But at least they had this figured out now, as some small comfort.

"I, for once, would not mind one of Donut's massages. Or a spa day. Fuck it, we're taking two weeks of vacation when we get home."

"Yeah," Simmons said and clung onto the bit of hope the word 'home' had granted him. "Yeah…"

Grif looked at him, blinking sleepily. "You know, if we have to get by with sign language at least Sarge won't be able to shout at us for doing pillow talk again. Hell, I could even insult him without him knowing. The opportunities…"

Simmons laughed weakly and became aware of the pain in his ribs. He winched. "You're not mad, right?"

"Depends. Will you yell at me when I spill soda?"

"Well, the next time please let me know if you're being an asshole or trying to flirt."

"My flirting skills are still better than yours. You are oblivious as fuck, Simmons."

He felt his cheeks grow hot again. "I never thought _you_ \- I, I would never have minded-"

"Idiot," Grif said and nuzzled his face against his shoulder.

That just gave Simmons clear view of the gash on his forehead, despite the darkness of the shelter. He wriggled his hand free to gently look it over. Grif winched and tried to pull away when he added a bit of pressure to rub away some dried blood. "Fucking ow."

"Shut up, I'm trying to be caring."

"Oh." Grif stopped struggling. "Continue then."

Simmons had just snorted, letting a finger rest against his skin again, when they both heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming closer. Simmons felt his stomach turn into ice, twist, bounce, shatter, and then the ice splinters tearing into the remaining organs. For a moment he seemed to stop breathing.

Maybe it was that brief second of actual fear in Grif's eyes, the ones that were normally so calm they could stop Simmons from panicking, that made him lunge forward and press his lips against Grif's.

For a moment he only focused on the sheer relief in Grif kissing back instead of the knowledge that soon they would be torn away from each other again, they would finally be brought to Felix and who knew what would happen then…

"See, I told you they were just busy making out."

Simmons was not sure how he was capable to feel so annoyed but on the same time so relieved at the sound of Tucker's voice.

Grif pulled back. "Oh my god, we're not going to die," he exclaimed in relief, slumping against Simmons again.

"Need a hand?" Wash appeared in the exit of the crack, blocking the light as he offered to help them out.

Simmons almost felt like laughing. "Pretty much, yeah." He let go of Grif to be pulled out of the shelter.

"Holy crap," Tucker exclaimed when he saw the lack of limb. "Just how did that happen?!"

"Well, remember how your mom always said good boy sleep with their hands above the covers or else it was gonna fall off-"

"Shut up, Grif," Simmons said after wobbling a few steps away so they could help out Grif next. His legs felt very stiff after being stuck in that position for too long.

Grif struggled to remain standing, keeping a grip on Tucker's arm as they slowly made their way back to the nearby Warthog.

Wash remained close to Simmons in case he needed help. "So," he said, keeping his tone light, "whose brilliant idea was it to turn off the radios?"

"It was my fault," they then said in unison, causing the two of them to stare at each other.

Wash tilted his head. It was not much of an answer but at least they were no arguing like before the mission. Unless disagreeing on the blame could be called arguing.

"So how did you find us?" Simmons asked.

"Well, that wrecked jeep was neat," Tucker answered. "Following the smoke finally gave us something to look for. So we decided to take the chance and bet this was where you were holed up."

"We kinda expected the pirates to find us first."

"Oh, they were on your asses. But we stopped them."

Simmons blinked. "How?"

They finally gained enough distance from the cliff wall so they had a view down the canyon. The wreck was easy to spot due smoke. And behind it…

"Holy fuck," Grif breathed out, almost stumbling.

The direction from which they had escaped had been blocked. Numerous vehicles with soldiers marching between them created a blockade that had ensured their friends had gotten to them first.

Concentrating hard enough, Simmons was sure he could spot some red and pink armor among the soldiers.

"Felix and Locus are on the other side of that thing. According to the scouts, the shithead should be fuming." Tucker sighed. "I wish I could see it."

"A few more minutes and we would have arrived too late," Wash let them know as they helped them into the back of the Warthog.

"Well," Simmons said, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to accept the fact that they were actually being rescued. When Grif was placed next to him, he reached out with his remaining hand which Grif grabbed the moment the Blues were back in their seats. "We're lucky like that."

* * *

"So you blew up a mine, a garage and a Warthog?" It was hard to tell whether Kimball was impressed, annoyed or horrified.

Grif shifted in his hospital bed. "The Warthog was by accident." His leg had been wrapped up and his sores had been cleaned. Like Simmons he now had a piece of gauze across his forehead.

Sarge cackled quietly and leaned closer to let Carolina know, "I taught them well."

"It seems like you have caused more damage to the enemy than we did on the actual mission," Kimball admitted with a tilted head. "Though I will refrain from praising you. This entire situation should not have happened."

Simmons looked a bit disappointed. "Sorry. We won't do it again."

Grif snorted at that comment.

Simmons was resting in a bed next to Grif since Grey was keeping an eye on his bruised ribs. It would take some time before she would have a new arm ready for him, but she had promised to work on the cyborg limb alongside Sarge as quickly as possible.

Improvements and upgrades for the arm had been promised as well, and Grif had not kept his mouth shut about things they should install in them – one of these ideas involving a toaster.

With none of their injuries fatal, they were mainly just in the med wing to get some rest which was clearly still needed despite their nap in the Warthog. Sensing that their friends were about to nod off, they left them alone in their ward.

The Lieutenants and Matthews had been there earlier with the latter bringing alone several _Get Well Soon_ cards – three of them being written by himself since he ran out of space on the first two cards. Grif had been immensely grateful when Grey eventually kicked them out.

It had been hard to hide the change in their relationship since they had arrived in Armonia while cuddled up against each other in the back of the Warthog, fast asleep. It was hard to know who had spread the news first; Tucker, Bitters or Palomo. They all seemed a bit too excited about it – Bitters liked the new source he could use for blackmailing.

"Well, you sorta got your wish," Simmons said when they were alone in the darkened room. "Grey will make sure you can skip training for at least a week."

"Make it two. You know we deserve it." Grif leaned back in his pillow. "We went through shit, Simmons. Time to reap the benefits."

"Sick days?" Simmons asked.

Grif nodded. "Sick days."

Simmons gently touched the part of his shoulder where his left arm should have continued. "I guess it was worth it. Kinda," he said softly.

With a smile, Grif looked at him. "Well, we got _something_ out of it."

"We did manage to stop an enemy operation," Simmons said after nodding.

"You're lame," he snorted in response and almost threw his pillow at him, but he would rather keep the comfort. "'least I can sleep in my own room again after we get released." His smile turned smug. "And I guess you have no choice than to be sharing bed with me."

"You're smart when you want to," Simmons groaned but smiled back. He leaned back in his bed as well, but kept his head turned so he could stare at Grif.

Grif folded his hands on top of his stomach. "You sound so surprised." Being careful of his leg, he turned over as well. "So," he mused, "what are we going to spend our vacation on?"

"You call this a vacation?" Simmons asked, staring back.

"What, a whole week off to be spent with you? Definitely a vacation. The best kind."

"But let's not go through all that again," Simmons said and reached out with his remaining hand. The distance was too big between the two beds but when Grif reached for him as well their fingers touched.

"Worth it, Simmons," Grif told him with a smile. "Definitely worth it."

* * *

A/N: **Important!** I will not longer be active on ffnet, but I am still very much active on Archive of Our Own where I go by the name RiaTheDreamer. I have much more RvB fics there and I'm constantly updating.


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